Sometimes, You Get What You Need
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: Vampires, ninjas, explosions ... Dean has his hands full, and Sam is busy with his new girlfriend. Then there's that interesting but infuriating agent from a mysterious department who knows a lot more than he's supposed to. Add in some sexy goddesses, and Dean just might end up learning a thing or two about himself before this case is over.
1. Chapter 1

"Did you call Jody back and let her know we're here?" Sam asked as he brought his bags into the motel room. The Noces Motel was like all the others; same crappy places, just a different decor. White Spanish arches held up the roof over the manager's office, and the room's decorations would have made a Marachi band happy. Dean would be excited to see the magic fingers coin box between the beds; Sam was just happy the place boasted free wi-fi. He dropped the laptop case on the chair by the small table.

"Done. She's calling her friend to tell him to expect us. The sheriff's office is not far. We could head on over, see what we're up against," Dean replied as he plopped the duffle bag on the bed. Jody Mills had called them two days before with a head's up on some weirdness in Southwestern Pennsylvania; six bodies, drained of blood, ripped apart, all in a span of four weeks. The deaths reeked of vampires; since the final leviathans had been rounded up and disposed of, the monsters had been out in full force. Fear of Dick Roman and his minions had kept a lot of the other predators at bay; their demise meant the rats could come out to play. This vampire situation was par for the course.

"Sounds like a plan," Dean responded, unzipping his duffle to get his FBI suit and badge. "Let's see what our local leo has to say and then find some vamps to kill." He smiled as he kicked his boots off, anxious to get back to the fight.

"Thanks for coming," Deputy Martin Cosgrow said. He walked them through the office and down the stairs towards the morgue. "The last vics came in two days ago. They were found in the basement of the Olin Fine Arts Center on the W & J campus, in one of the storage rooms." The deputy was a young-looking man in his late 30s who kept himself in shape, and he moved briskly to one of the body drawers along the wall of the cold room. The metal slab slid open with its grisly contents. With a flick, he pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. "They were student workers, down there to organize some scenery and costumes. Greg Morgan and Andrew Little. Their necks were completely torn out."

Dean shared a look with his brother; the wounds were clearly the work of a vamp. "Jody said the bodies were drained of blood?"

"And there was little blood at the scene. Coroner's theory is that someone drained the blood and took it with them, though no one has a good answer for why anyone would do that and tear out the throat." The deputy spread the sheet back over the dead man's face. "A far reach for an explanation, if you ask me. I've known Jody since college; her husband and I went to school together. Ever since his and her son's death, well, I guess I've known there could be other reasons for the weird cases."

"The others were like this?" Sam prompted when the officer seemed to lose himself in thought, worry furrowing his brow. He nodded to them and the body disappeared as the deputy slid it back into the wall.

"The first was Robin Benet, a local farmer. His wife found him behind his barn. Then the whole Ambrose family," he paused and cleared his throat. "That one was the worst. Marley was just 8-years-old. She went to school with my youngest. They were all torn up, like the perps tortured them."

"And the destruction? Was that just at the last place?" Dean asked.

"Nothing at the Benet farm. He was found outside by the barn. But the Ambrose basement was tossed and walls ripped out in places. It's strange, like they were looking for something. But none of the victims had anything in common, other than living here. Jody said you guys handle these kinds of, um, cases."

"Yeah, strange cases are us," Dean said. "Can you give us the addresses of the other sites?"

Dean pulled the Impala up to the old farmhouse and cut the engine. The two-story white clapboard was a classic, despite the fact that the house had been added on to over the years. A broad roof covered the earliest section where the front door was perched in the middle of a wide porch. A set of wooden stairs, whose white paint job had seen better days, led up to the porch where honest-to-goodness wicker rockers sat. The brothers climbed up and knocked. When no one answered, Sam peeked into one of the front windows; there was no movement that he could see.

"I'll check around back," he said. "You want to take the barn?"

"Oh, yeah, I love barns. Maybe I'll find a cute farm girl in the hay loft," Dean wiggled his eyebrows at his brother. "Nothing like some daisy duke shorts to make my day." Sam watched him as he moved down the steps, glad to see his brother's good mood then headed around back of the house towards the garage.

The barn was perfect red Americana, with a hayloft door up above the entrance, complete with a braced beam that housed a rope and pulley to haul bales up; inside, horse stalls lined the walls, about half-filled with well-cared for animals. Dean had a soft spot for horses, mainly because he loved cowboy movies and liked to think of himself as a gunslinger from the Old West. A couple neighed softly as he moved by, checking out the interior for any signs of the tragedy that had happened. Out the back door was a fenced in riding ring; the deputy had said the body was found in the far corner of the ring, and Dean headed that way, but there was nothing to see except what might have been a few dark spots on the tamped down earth. The whole farmstead was out of town and isolated; the vamps might have chosen this guy simply because he was an easy target.

As he headed back through the barn, Dean paused just outside the doors, surveying the house and driveway. The main road was invisible from here and the house had no view of the back of the barn; perfect seclusion for an attack.

"Pretty isolated spot, isn't it?" A voice said, coming from above him. Dean jerked around, jumped back a step as he yanked the pistol from his waistband, looking up at the hayloft door. Leaning against the jamb was a man dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt. He had black boots, dirty and scuffed from use, and his jeans were snug, but worn, well-used and lived in. His sinewy arms were casually crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his elbows, and he wore what looked like a fingerless glove on his left hand. Dean judged him to be close to his own height, and the man's shirt pulled across his chiseled chest. Short, spiky brown hair was above the set of black sunglasses that hid his eyes. Dean's first impression was that this was not a man to be messed with, and the ease with which he balanced his feet on the threshold and his arm on the side jamb told Dean he had skills and training. But most of all, Dean was impressed by the man's attitude. Casual and calm, he was one smooth son of a bitch to not blink in the face of a weapon.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded. "I'm FBI. What are you doing here?" The man smiled at Dean's declaration, a mischievous grin that covered the tense readiness of his body.

"An interested party," he replied. "I'm looking into the recent deaths in the area. Came out here to check the site and saw you drive up. FBI, huh? They usually drive towncars, don't they?" He pulled himself upright and, before Dean even realized what was happening, grabbed the rope from the pulley and swung down to the ground, landing just a few feet away. He smoothly put his hands up as Dean kept the gun aimed in his direction. "Well, Agent ….?"

"May, Brian May," Dean answered. He took a quick measure of the man; slightly shorter than Dean, he was compact, and he held himself in a ready stance; he might seem relaxed and casual, but Dean bet he could draw that gun out of his thigh holster fast enough to be dangerous.

"Really? Brian May's one hell of a guitarist, I'll give you that, but did you know he's also an astrophysicist? I met him once. Nice guy. Terrible loss when Freddie died." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm Clint Barton. I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I can show you my credentials . . . if you show me yours." He smiled again, a wolfish smile that let Dean know he knew the FBI cover story was full of crap. Damn, but Dean was beginning to like this guy, whoever he was. He was a quick with an answer as Dean himself.

"Dean, there's a jeep behind the house," Sam said as he rounded the corner of the barn. He stopped when he saw the newcomer and raised an eyebrow in question.

"This must be your partner … ummm … John Deacon?" Clint dropped his hands and held out his left towards Sam, tilting his head back to look at the Winchester's face. "Clint Barton. I suspect we're all here for the same reason. Any chance you can get your brother Dean to lower that pistol?" Sam, unsure, shook the outstretched hand. "You guys favor each other you know. Well, except for the height difference. There are giants somewhere in the family tree, I take it?"

"Homeland Security?" Dean said as he lowered his weapon, keeping it out and ready. "What interest do they have in this?"

"Could be related to a current case I'm working on," Clint replied. "Then again it could not. That's why I'm here checking it out. What I find interesting is why two fake FBI agents would show up? Unless I'm you're hunters sniffing around what looks like vampire kills."

The Gabby Inn was almost empty at 3:30 pm on a Wednesday afternoon, aside from a few hardcore regulars who had their own permanent spots. Dean had picked his favorite kind of place; tucked in a corner on a side street with nothing but alcohol and a deep fryer, the local hangout certainly wasn't an upscale pick-up spot. Dean, Sam and Clint occupied a table in the corner, with a vantage point of the doors; there'd been an interesting little dance to see who got the chair with its back to the main entrance, settled only when Sam dragged the chair out and angled it partially away from the others. The youngest of the two waitresses, somewhere in her early 20s with white blonde tips in her dyed black hair and a very generous figure headed over to the table. Her white tank fit snugly, showing her tattooed shoulder and spray-on tan.

Dean watched Clint's every move; when the agent removed his sunglasses and slipped them into the neckband of his shirt, Dean examined the startling blue green eyes, trying to read more about this new variable. Hardness was there and a laser-like focus that narrowed in on Dean and made him feel both uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. But the lurking sense of humor Dean found appealing. Clint's mouth turned up on one side, a quirky little half-smile as he watched Dean watching him.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" the waitress said, smiling at each one of them, taking a moment to meet each man's gaze.

"What's local?" Clint asked. The waitress turned her attention to him, bending slightly to be closer to eye level with the seated men, but Clint's eyes never wavered from Dean and Sam.

"Oh, we have Iron City and Stoney's," she said. "We have both in bottle or draft, but we also have a number of others."

"Iron City's fine. Bottle," Clint ordered, and the waitress turned to the two Winchesters.

"What would you like, honey?" She asked. Dean's eyes took in her figure, and he winked before turned back to watch the man across the table.

"The same," he ordered.

"And you?" she asked as she turned to Sam. Sam brushed his brown hair back from his face as he turned slightly towards her.

"Same for me," Sam responded. The waitress eyed the tall Winchester with interest and gave a sexy smile as she really looked at him.

"Anything else, just let me know. I'm Susie, by the way," she offered as she left, one last lingering look at Sam.

"Well?" Dean said, sitting back in his chair and aiming his stare towards Clint, propping his boot up on the second rung of the chair, and hooking his left arm over the back of the seat. His posture was meant to be relaxed, but his distrust of Clint was evident. Still, Dean could see that Clint wasn't pushing the brothers; to Dean's senses, the agent was playing it straight.

"I need you to help me find these vampires and clean up this mess." Clint put his hands on the table and stretched his fingers, flexing each one at a time. Dean's eyes were drawn to the sinewy fingers as Clint began to tap an intricate pattern on the wood. The capable hands had seen hard work, fingers lined with calluses. "Resources are stretched pretty thin right now, and I'm on my own for the moment."

"Question is," Dean retorted. "What does the government care about a vampire nest? What are you looking for?"

"Dean," Sam cautioned, "the obvious answer is terrorism of some sort. That's what Homeland Security does. Think about it. If some terrorist group wanted to cause a lot of damage, riling up vampires or other monsters would make sense." The waitress arrived with three chilled bottles and sat them down carefully, and the conversation stopped as she put down a bowl pretzels, along with some snack mix.

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling at the young woman; Dean waited until she left before ribbing his brother.

"I think she likes you," he joked. "Bet she'll give you her number." Sam gave Dean a grimace at his brother's attempts to fix him up with girls.

Sam had called to check on Clint in the car, verifying the division Clint named was real since the brothers knew how easy it was to fake credentials. Clint had checked out, and Sam was interested in learning more about this S.H.E.I.L.D. that he worked for. He planned to spend some time on the laptop when they got back to the motel, seeing what he could dig up. If there was an agency actually aware of and working against the monsters, why were they so low profile? Frank never mentioned them, and he was the biggest conspiracy theorist Sam had known.

"I've put a lot of mileage in following what I think might be the trail of a potential new threat. The group's m.o. is to use local supernaturals as a front. I think they are involved in a break-in by arachne near the Vatican a few months ago, and a series of werewolf killings in D. C. In each case, the locations were tossed, as if someone was looking for something, and from the destruction left behind, they are getting increasingly desperate." Clint tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of the cold brew; Dean did the same. The iced beer went a long way to shaking off the sweatiness of a muggy day. "So far, it's just been the supernaturals attacking, and In every case, they're dead by the time the other guys move on. If I can get a live vamp, I could ask some questions, see what's what, maybe find who's behind this."

"Well, first place to start is to figure out if the victims had anything in common; if what you believe is true, then there's got to be a reason they picked those places and people. We should ask around, see what we can learn about the victims, and check the local library and museums for background on the history of the town," Sam speculated. Clint nodded in agreement.

"So what are we talking about here?" Dean asked as he shifted forward, placing his elbows on the table and taking a drink. "Information? An actual physical item? What the hell could be in Southwestern PA that some terrorist group would want? The Vatican, D.C., sure, that makes sense. But sleepy suburb?" He hooked a handful of pretzels to go with the beer then offered the bowl to others who shook their heads.

"If I wanted to keep something safe, I'd pick an out-of-the-way place." Sam shrugged. He pulled at the knot of his tie, loosening it and unbuttoning the first button of his shirt. "What I don't get is if the vampires know they are being used or are they actively involved?"

"We don't have any firm information," Clint said. "They appear to be working in concert with the other group, but we don't know for sure."

"You mean you can't prove anything. But you suspect something. Cough up the theory." Dean scowled at Clint and tapped the table with his knuckles. His impatience was showing; Dean hated government types to begin with, and he wanted answers.

"You doing okay?" Susie asked, swinging by the table again. She put the bill on the table by Sam. "Take your time," she told them after they indicated they didn't need anything.

"Okay," Clint said after the waitress left again. "My guess? It's probably an item, something old that has ties to the supernatural community, maybe has legends or stories of power about it. I suspect they think if they can find it, they can learn from it and use it. A talisman or something."

Sam nodded, unfazed by the fact that they might be looking for a mystical artifact. "Yeah, seen a few of those in our time. That helps with the research end of things." He finished off his beer. "Okay, I'll hit the library and see if I can find anything the vics or the places have in common."

Dean slid aside the bill to pick up the napkin folded underneath. A name and number were on it. "I'll drop you on the way to the other sites. I bet Susie can tell you where the library is if you ask nicely," Dean gave his brother a knowing look as he passed him the napkin. "G-man here can come with me." Dean dug a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the table before he pushed back his chair. He gave Clint an unspoken look that said he wanted to keep an eye on him.

Clint looked at the brothers, then stood up and shrugged. "Works for me."

The brothers were an interesting pair, Clint mused to himself, Dean playing bad cop and Sam the softer, more open one. He sincerely doubted that either was a good read on them and figured they could switch on a dime, Sam becoming the hard ass and Dean being seductive and playful. Little did they know that Clint was a master at the game of misdirection himself. Dean's steady gun hand had impressed him at the farm, the stone-face of a man who had killed before and would again, if deemed necessary. Clint could understand a man like that.

"I'm just saying you can't discount all of British music. 'Daytripper' has a great riff and then there's the Stones," Clint said as Dean turned the Impala into the parking lot of the Fine Arts Building. "It's not all pop and punk, you know."

"Okay, I'll give you the Stones. Richards kicks ass," Dean acquiesced as they got out of the car. "But you've got to admit that Page rocked." He tugged at his suit jacket and pulled at his tie in the afternoon heat. "I hate suits. Why do feds have to wear suits in hot weather?" He shot a look at Clint in his snug t-shirt and tight jeans.

"Don't give me that look," Clint said as he pulled open the door to the theater. "You haven't seen the suit I get to wear. This is business casual for me. Neckties are for management types." As he held the door, Dean reached for the handle and their hands brushed. A fission of awareness jolted up Clint's arm as skin touched skin, and his surprise was mirrored in Dean's eyes. Clint drew back sharply, out of the way of the entrance; Dean moved by, avoiding contact. Letting him take the lead, Clint noticed how Dean's cheap suit pulled across his shoulders as he walked. The man did have an arrogance about him that was appealing and evident even in his cocksure walk.

The entryway led to a tiled hallway with concrete block walls, so typical of a university building. Double doors stood wide open into the theater space. A man walked out, in his mid-fifties, wearing ratty jeans, an old out-of-shape grey t-shirt and an open plaid shirt on top. His pockets were worn in the spots where keys and tools bulged. Slightly balding, glasses perched on his head, he squinted his eyes as he peered at them.

"Excuse me," Dean said, flipping out his fake id. "Agent May with the FBI. We have a few questions about the murders. And, um, this is Agent, …" He looked sideways at Clint.

"Barton," he supplied. Dean waited a beat for him to add more, but Clint only raised his eyebrows and stayed silent. If Dean wanted to take the lead, Clint had no problem letting him; actually it amused him to watch the other man work. Their styles were very different, but Dean was effective in his own way. Kind of like a wrecking ball in subtlety, but then Clint worked with people much more high-maintenance.

"FBI?" the man said, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Of course. You're here about the murders. You'll want to see the room, right? Let me get the key. The Deputy called, said you might be here." He patted his pockets, front then back then front, pulling out various rings of keys until he found the right one. "It's this way." Moving off, he headed towards a door that opened into a stairwell. Dean and Clint followed him down a set of stairs, back a small hallway to a storage room tucked under the stage. Crime scene tape cut across the open door, and the man handed Clint the key to the door. Once open, dark stains on the worn carpet could be seen just inside.

"It's a terrible thing," the man said as they paused outside the door. "They were only 19-years-old." He lapsed into silence, seemingly unable to continue.

"Why were they down here?" Clint asked as he ducked under the tape and entered the room. What had once been metal utility shelves were twisted and pulled down, and all the items that had been neatly organized in plastic tubs were strewn around the room: shredded costumes, smashed hats, ripped apart fake jewelry, torn posters, and more. Clint knelt near the biggest stains, eyeing the devastation in the small space.

"Putting away some props from the last play. We ended the run Sunday evening; they were stage crew. That's their job." Jingling keys constantly, the man averted his eyes from the blood and devastation. Clint shot Dean a look. Most people were rubberneckers, dying to get a look at death and its markers. Either this guy had already snuck into the room, or he, for some reason, didn't want to look.

"I didn't catch your name?" Dean asked the man, flipping open his little FBI-like notepad. "For the record."

"Oh, I'm Benjamin French, Professor French. Head of the Drama department." He shook his head as if confused by all of this. "I just don't understand. There's nothing here worth anything. It's all cobbled together, donated, leftovers. We don't have a big budget so we beg, borrow and steal."

"Any reason anybody would want to hurt Greg or Andrew? Any enemies?" Dean continued the questions, pressing the professor. Clint was just as suspicious as Dean appeared to be. Drama teacher or not, he wasn't the best actor; telltale signs gave away his nervousness, rubbing his right hand on his left wrist, circling over and over again.

"No, I mean, I don't really know. They were taking the class to fulfill their general education credits, so this was their first show with us. We get a lot of students that way. You should ask Martha, the secretary. She kept tabs on their hours. She'll know more about them." He backed away. "I've got class in a few. Can you let yourself out? Martha leaves at 4:30 if you want to catch her." He hurried away back down the hall.

"Well, that's not suspicious or anything," Dean muttered as he turned to Clint. "I think our drama prof is up to something or knows something. Maybe both." Dean stuck his head in the room. "Anything here?"

"They were killed first before the room was searched. The blood is under the material here, but not here. Probably knocked some things off the shelves in their struggle," Clint supplied, standing up and brushing his hands against his jean clad thighs. "My bet is the vamps didn't find what they were looking for. Too much rage and anger. They destroyed things just to cause damage." He ducked back under the tape and out into the hall.

"Yeah, I think Professor Brody here might get lost in his own building, but he knows something," Dean stopped when he saw Clint's grin. "What?"

"Brody, huh?"

"Hey, I watch movies, you know. I kinda like those. The first three. The fourth one was crap," Dean said in his defense. Clint's smile just widened; it was easy to get to Dean, to start an argument over the silliest things.

"Okay, let's check out this professor." Clint started back down the hallway. "But I get to be Indy."

"Uh, no, you can be that other guy, the helper dude," Dean argued.

"I know how to use a whip. Do you?" Clint asked, humor lightening his eyes.

"No, but I'm resourceful and can come up with a plan on the fly," Dean returned. "And I look really good in a leather jacket …." Clint laughed. He pictured Dean in the jacket, hat, with whip in hand, and he had to admit to himself that Dean just might be right.


	2. Chapter 2

Citizen's Library was a low slung brick building with colonial columns flanking the front entry steps. A large open space with fake wooden tables spaced regularly between newspaper stands, the library was partially filled with people, using computers, and choosing books from long cabinets. A back section opened onto metal stack shelving, overburdened with more of the library's holdings. Sam had set up close to the far wall, laptop facing away from the room, stacks of books and papers wedged in around an active microfiche machine.

"I bet it's always easy to find him in a crowd," Clint muttered to Dean as they entered. Dean grinned back. Even seated, Sam stood out in a room full of mostly senior citizens and moms with kids. Clint was beginning to understand the dynamics of the two, big brother to little brother. Despite the size difference, Sam was the youngest and always would be in Dean's eyes.

"You're just jealous," Dean shot back. The agent was a few inches shorter than Dean, not really that much of a difference, but Dean seemed to like it.

They crossed by the checkout desk where a woman in her thirties was dressed all in floral prints, pants and clashing shirt, pulling books out of the return bin as she bopped her head to whatever was playing over the ear buds attached to a new ipod. As they neared, Sam looked up from the glowing blue screen fixed on old newspaper story.

"Hey. I think I've got something, maybe." He scrolled the film backwards until a photo of the farmhouse they'd visited earlier came into focus. "A story about the local history of the Underground Railroad. Both the Benet farm and the Ambrose's house were part of a network of houses where the escaping slaves hid until they moved on. Specifically, the Benet barn and the Ambrose's basement."

Clint leaned over Sam's shoulder for a look, resting his forearm on the back of the chair; the muscles in his arms flexed as he balanced.

"There's six specific places mentioned here, but they also say that there were numerous caves and underground bunkers that are lost or unknown." Sam shook his head. "It's the only connection I can find. The Benet's are longtime residents, but the Ambrose family just moved here last year. Different schools, churches … far as I can tell nothing. Brenda behind the desk has been very helpful." Sam stretched, arching his back, then ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair. "My guess is they'll hit one of the other four locations tonight, but it would help to know more about the history of those two specific places. There could be something special about them."

"Um, excuse me," a woman's voice came quietly from behind them. "Brenda said you wanted more books from the basement?" Sam turned to find a lovely brown-haired woman standing with a book in each hand. Her long hair was caught up in a casual twist at the back of her head, held in place by a sparkly clip. A pair of skinny dark jeans were topped off by a teal and grey striped shirt. Her face was pretty; not drop dead beautiful, but a pleasant mixture of olive-skinned features with dark brown eyes. She wore little make-up and was in her late 20s. As tall as Clint, she nervously bounced on her feet, not entirely making eye contact.

"Yeah, that's for me," Sam said as he took one of the proffered books. "Thanks …."

"Kate," she offered hesitantly. "If you need anything else, I'm working the desk tonight. Brenda leaves right at five p.m. on Thursdays. I'm here until we close at nine." She glanced at Dean and Clint. "Are you done with any of this? I'll put it back for you."

"Actually, if you have anything else on the Underground Railroad locations around here, I'd like to see it," Sam said as he gathered up some of materials, standing up and pushing back the chair. As he handed her the stack, Clint saw their hands brush; the clerk jerked back, a quick stumble then laughed lightly. She had to tilt her head up to look at Sam.

"Well, if you want info on that, we have a lot more in storage but you should really go to the LeMoyne House, just down on Maiden Street. The Historical Society has all their records there along with Dr. LeMoyne's personal papers." She juggled the books to one hand in order to push back a tendril of hair that had escaped the twist.

"Dr. LeMoyne?" Clint asked. All three turned their full attention on Kate, who stammered as she tried to reply.

"F-F-Francis LeMoyne. A major figure in the abolishionist movement. Started LeMoyne College, ran the Underground Railroad through the county, big supporter of women's education." Dean cut Sam a look; the brothers' unspoken communication interested Clint. You had to work together a long time to be able to say everything with a look. An idea was forming between them, and Clint thought they were all on the same page.

"Where did you say this place is?" Dean pulled his phone out to find a map.

"Well, they closed at 4:00," Kate offered. "But I think Emily's probably upstairs. She usually comes and works in the office here for a while. I could check and see. She might let some FBI guys in if it's about the murders. She was good friends with Paula Benet." She hurried off to find the other woman and Sam watched her go.

"Sammy, you stay here and see what the else the librarian, um, library has. We can hit the Museum." Dean winked at his brother who gave him a get-lost look.

"Sure," Sam said, turning to the book in his hand. "You boys have fun." He didn't see Dean's look in reply. Clint left Sam to his research; he much preferred being in the field where he might see some action.

"I hope this helps you find the people who killed Robin and those other people." Emily Clutter was a suburban mom complete with a mini-van with little stickers for her kids, cats and dogs on the rearview window. She'd chattered the whole time she gathered records and made copies; her perfectly coiffed hair fit with the matching pantsuit. She'd kept herself in shape after the kids, but had been quick to drop that she was divorced, the kids living with the ex-husband. As she'd let them in the back entrance, Emily focused her attention on Clint, virtually ignoring Dean as she helped pull the records and make copies in the small office. It might have pissed him off, except for the fact that Clint's reaction was very amusing.

"Thank you ma'am, you've been a big help," Dean said, just as Emily came up to stand by them. Clint's eyes widened as she brushed past, patting her hand against his ass. Dean hid his smirk behind a stack of papers. He was taking a lot of joy in Clint's unease around the soccer mom. She'd been perfectly clear about her intentions, and Dean liked seeing the self-possessed agent out-of-sorts.

"If you boys need anything else," Emily said, "I can fill you in on details and maybe help you out some? I've done some research in the records for the museum."

"I think we're okay." Dean tried to keep the laughter from his voice. "We appreciate you opening up for us after hours. You've been a big help." Clint made a beeline for the door, eager to leave. Dean was tempted to hang around a little more just to unnerve him, but they had information to look through and night approached.

They hurried down the stairs to the car before Dean let his grin spread and he began to laugh. "Come on, she wasn't that bad, dude. Maybe a little too desperate housewives, but not bad at all."

Clint shook his head as he slid into the passenger side of the Impala. "Not my taste. I like more of a kick-your-ass-for-foreplay woman." He winked and rubbed his hands on his thighs. "The pantsuit was too … mom-like." Dean swung out into what amounted for rush hour traffic in the small town, and they waited through two lights before they passed 20 m.p.h.

"I've had a few too many close encounters lately. On a little bit of a hiatus from chicks." Dean's face turned pensive, and he lapsed into silence until he saw that Clint had taken note of his change in mood. Then, he purposefully smiled and popped in a cassette; AC/DC's "Back in Black" blared over the car's speakers.

"Is there any of that Moo Shu left?" Dean asked as he finished off the twice cooked pork with his chopsticks. Empty Chinese takeout boxes were strewn across the front seat, and the car smelled like fried rice. They'd stopped for dinner before deciding to head to the professor's address while Sam kept researching. So far, the stakeout of French's had yielded nothing; they'd found the house easily enough and parked on a side street with a view of the front door, the garage, and the open curtains of the dining room. French's wife turned out to be the woman from the library, Brenda, and she and French had been eating at the table, seated on separate ends; body language broadcast tension from French, but Brenda seemed at ease. Little was said between them, and, as soon as dinner was finished, she left her husband to clean up.

"Good lord, where do you put it?" Clint asked as he passed the carton. The food was surprisingly good, and he was glad they ordered the amazing chicken as an extra dish. As far as stakeout food went, sharing Chinese with Dean in the Impala was superior to what he usually had and, strangely, sort of intimate.

"Hey, I'm a growing boy. When you find good food, you should eat it." Dean picked up a bite and chewed thoughtfully.

"You know, I don't think the professor has a happy marriage. Hubby's home doing the dishes while she gets ladies' night out." Dean nodded his head at the house where Clint could see Brenda exiting the front door, dressed in another hideous floral outfit of blue capris and parrot-print shirt. French was visible through the doorway of the dining room, puttering in the kitchen. Brenda got into a blue Subaru that had seen some mileage and pulled away from the curb. French came through the dining room and his silhouette appeared in the door panels. He stayed there for a good four minutes, watching the street. Then he retreated into the interior of the house.

"He's henpecked, sure, but there's more to it," Clint said. "He's checking to make sure she's gone. Yeah, things are not good in the French household." He stuffed the garbage down into the brown bag it had come in and shuffled through the information from the LeMoyne House. They'd split the stack to research, though Dean had done more eating than reading. "So, it seems Francis LeMoyne was a pretty non-descript guy until 1834 when he joined the Washington Anti-Slavery society, and in short time, became the president and the most active member. A conversion to the cause, it seems. Let's see, his parents immigrated from Paris just prior to his birth. They were known to have brought a number of very expensive items with them; in a small rural town, the stuff stood out. There's even some copies of old newspaper stories about the parents and their collection." He held up a poor quality copy of a daguerreotype of a middle-aged man and an elderly gentleman. The younger man stood behind the older man in a room that was richly decorated.

"So, what, you think Francis came into possession of something from his parents and it made him have a backbone?" Dean took the picture. "Wait, I think I saw something in here about his mom …" Papers slid off the seat as Dean pawed through them. "Here it is, Marie LeMoyne, died in … 1833. Could be something she had that came to him after her death. He was an only child."

They both began pouring over the papers again, looking for any clues. The evening began to deepen into twilight, the car darkening with the shadows.

"Damnit, I don't have anything here. There could be more at the museum." Dean checked his watch: 8:02 p.m. "I say we give Sam a call, then call this quits. Theater professor's turned on the tv for the night. We might have better luck by ourselves at the museum. I just need to change and grab a few tools from the room."

"Are you suggesting we break in and help ourselves to the documents?" Clint eyed Dean sternly, but then broke into a laugh. This whole day just kept getting better. A little night time B&E would be a good nightcap. "Bet I can get in faster than you. Just drive by the jeep and let me get my bag. I'm sure that my tools are better than yours."

"Sam said he'll go back through the material he has," Dean said as he dragged the tie from around his neck. "I think the cute librarian is helping him. We can pick him up on the way and then hit the other sites afterwards." He pushed his dress shoes off, toes to heels, without untying them. Hanging the suit coat around a chair, he rolled his shoulders to work out some kinks and took a pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of his bag. His fingers made quick work of the buttons on the white dress shirt, and he tossed it with the jacket.

Shedding the image of a professional, Dean slipped back into the persona of a hunter, unaware of Clint's engaged gaze. Dean didn't waste time at a gym, sculpting each muscle, but he also didn't have the layer of paunch of a person who sat in a car all day. He stayed in shape because he had to; the demands of his chosen profession meant his chest was toned, abs taunt, and arms sinewy and strong.

"Interesting tattoo." Clint stood, with crossed arms, observing, leaning against the small end table. A ripple of apprehension ran up Dean's spine. The room suddenly seemed smaller; the ancient air conditioner only managed to slightly stir the already muggy air. That had to be the reason Dean was suddenly sweating.

"A ward against demon possession." Dean decided to answer the question instead of dwelling on the strange feelings. "Don't relish having someone in the driver's seat except me. I want to be the one to make decisions, stupid or not." Clint was quiet for a moment, and Dean caught glimpse of a familiar emotion cross the man's face: regret. His rugged face was marked with scars and memories of his own decisions, and Clint's eyes turned darker, changing color.

"Yeah, I know," he said, and Dean could tell he really meant it. Opening his own bag, Clint tugged the shirt from his waistband of his jeans and pulled it over his head. His body was lean and tightly drawn, skin marred by the remnants of past battles, scars that stretched as he lifted his chiseled arms, veins twining around muscles as dropped them again. Deliberate movements betrayed his unease with the subject.

"It was bad?" Dean asked. By all accounts, the conversation should have been awkward; half-dressed and talking about serious things with another man was not Dean's cup of tea. But there was something comfortable, something familiar between them. Enough so, that Dean noticed how Clint turned slightly away, hiding his face from the increasing intimacy of the conversation, and then the low slung jeans that rode snugly across Clint's hip bones, shifting as he pulled clothes out of the bag.

"Bad enough." Clint pulled off his work boots, balancing an arm on the table as he worked loose the ties. He caught Dean's look and met his eyes directly. "You?"

"A lot worse than demons," Dean shrugged the question aside and pulled his t-shirt over his head. "Dealing with it, I guess." He hesitated for a second, then unbuckled his belt and slid the slacks off, folding them over the chair. Dean turned his head away from Clint, only to find the room's mirror directly in front of him. Clint's jeans slid over his toned ass, black briefs taunt as he bent to push them over his feet. Then he saw that Clint watching him back, a question in his look. With a blink, Dean pivoted and sat on the bed, shaking out his jeans and sliding them on. A quick hop, and he threaded a leather belt through the loops. Dealing, my ass, he thought to himself. Things were getting stranger by the moment, just like always.

Clint laughed, a short bark that was more hollow than filled with amusement. "Ever had a god play with your head?" He pulled up a pair of black pants of some lightweight material that fit like a second skin. Heavy material covered both knees and he buckled straps inside his thigh to hold thick leather side guards in place. Dean raised an eyebrow as he checked his Glock, chambering a round before he tucked it into his waistband. He pocketed his lock picks.

"Ah, hell. Spent a lovely evening with a fun group of them once," Dean replied. "At least until a fallen angel showed up." Clint slipped his powerful arms into a black vest and zipped it up. Snug and form-fitting, the vest had buckles for a quiver of arrows that angled across his back.

"Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting an angel, but inter-dimensional rifts-r-us lately," he slipped an arm guard on his right arm and an odd three-fingered glove on his left, flexing his rugged fingers to seat the finger tabs.

"Parallel dimension or trickster loops?" Dean added a long-sleeve plaid button up to cover the top of the machete he strapped down to his thigh. He admitted to himself that he was enjoying the game of one-upmanship. It was rare to talk so openly about the weirdness that made up his life.

"Super villains," Clint countered, opening a case and taking out a black recurve bow, stowing it in a sling next to the arrows.

"Seriously. Like in the comic books," Dean looked doubtful. Clint seemed earnest, but his sense of humor had been on display all day. "Vats of acid, rich psychopaths and mad scientists?"

"Kinda like that." Clint slipped on his shades.

"It's going to be dark soon," Dean motioned outside. Clint smiled and touched the edge of the frame; the lens turned translucent. Dean shook his head at the suit. "Probably have targeting computers in the lens, right? Exploding tip arrows?"

Clint ignored the jibs and gave Dean a once over. "That's all you're taking?"

"Vamps aren't complicated. Take off their heads, don't let their blood get into any opening. Don't let them eat you." Dean opened the door and glanced back. "You know, I'm starting to doubt the whole Homeland Security cover. You look like a high tech hunter in that get-up." He headed for the car, the day's heat fading to a clammy coolness as the dew settled.

"Hey, isn't that the professor from the college?" Clint motioned towards a man hurrying along the sidewalk, heading back into town. A baseball cap was pulled down low, but Professor French wore the same clothes they had seen him in earlier. He had a cell phone plastered to his ear and was clearly agitated.

"Yeah, guess his movie's over. Wonder where he's going in a hurry?" Dean changed paths and headed after the retreating figure so involved in the person on the other end of the call that he didn't notice the men trailing him. "Let's find out."

"Yes, I did it. Yes. No. Yes. I can manage it myself. Yes. Yes. YES!" French paused at a four lane street, watching the traffic flow by. "I said, I can do it." With a quick motion, he darted out into a gap, dodging cars at a loping run. Dean and Clint dashed behind him, nearly colliding with a white Toyota that blasted its horn, crossing in time to see their quarry cut through a parking lot and head up by the Courthouse. French's backpack was red, and they followed it through some back alleys until he emerged onto Maiden Street, just a block away from the LeMoyne House.

"Yeah, I know, man, but this isn't a little thing," he was saying shouting as he put on a burst of speed up the steps of the museum. "But after this, I'm done, okay. is out of control. You have to see that." He let himself in with a key, leaving the door open as he passed the threshold. Clint entered first, surveying the entry hall. The basement door was ajar and the conversation continued, the man's anger making his words carry. "Dead is dead. Nothing can change that. I understand, I do. But this is insane."

Just at the second floor landing of the staircase, a figure materialized; an older man in an eighteenth-century suit, bushy beard and mustache, wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He shook his head and frantically motioned towards the front door, shorting out then reappearing at the door. He pointed to a picture on the wall then the door again.

"What the …"Clint muttered. Dean knew a ghost when he saw one; obviously the specter was outside of the agent's experiences. The ghost pointed again, more urgently; Dean stepped to look at the silver frame; inside was a picture of what was by now the familiar face of Francis LeMoyne, at a dedication ceremony in front of a building. The man was wearing the exact same suit as the ghostly figure that danced impatiently in the doorway.

"Look," Dean pointed. "It's LeMoyne." He yanked it off the wall and tore the back apart to get at the paper inside. Clint moved to look.

"Um, Dean," Clint said, glancing at the stairway. The professor had grown quiet downstairs and LeMoyne's ghost increasingly more maniac. Dean held the picture up to the light coming through the open doorway from the street outside.

"I can't quite make it out," he complained. A stab of icy cold hit his chest as the ghost's hand solidified and shoved him hard, pushing him out onto the step. Clint stumbled down the stairs as the ghost moved with inhuman speed and body checked the agent. As Dean looked back into the foyer, there was a cell phone ringtone.

"Who is …" the professor began, but his question was cut short by the a powerful force that rumbled up the stairs from the basement, blasted through the rooms, shattered windows, and sent rock tumbling from the outer walls as the house exploded.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean tried to drag in a breath, but the air in his lungs burned like the museum. He was sprawled on top of Clint, chest to chest, bodies entangled. Fiery pieces of the building occasionally rained down and he could feel the heat on his feet. The blast had knocked them down to the bottom of the stairs just passed the curb into the street; cars parked on either side partially protected them from the fall out.

"Unnnhh," Dean moaned as he rolled off Clint and sat up. "Damn. Did a ghost just push us out of the way of a bomb?" He rubbed his hand through his hair, shaking out shards and pieces of debris. The sound of sirens came from the direction of the courthouse. Ghosts had been helpful in the past, but LeMoyne's spirit had been aggressive in saving their lives.

"I don't think Professor French made it out. Someone called the cell to set off the explosives while he was still inside, probably deliberately. We would have been a bonus." Clint stood up and offered his hand to Dean. "We should check his last call. My money's on the wife being part of this. That sounded like an argument with a woman to me." Two police cars sped around the corner, lights cycling blue and red, and came to a halt in front of the scene. Deputy Cosgrow was the first one to emerge; the others flanked him, staring at the fire.

"What the hell happened?" Cosgrow glanced at Dean, but did a double-take when he looked at Clint. Sunglasses at night was probably something he didn't see every day, much less the bow and arrow. It didn't seem to bother the agent. "And who the hell are you?"

"Agent Clint Barton, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I'm working a case that may be related and the agents let me tag along," He held out his hand to the deputy who, after a moment of decision, shook Clint's hand in return.

"We saw Professor French enter the building with a backpack and followed," Clint said with his official voice, a cop tone that seemed to ease the officers. "He proceeded downstairs; as he came back up, we retreated to the front stoop. His cell phone rang just before the bomb blew. We were thrown clear, but he didn't come out." Cosgrow looked shocked.

"Ben French? He was in there? Are you sure?" He stared at the fire.

The attack came without warning. Vampires may look human, but they move with unnatural speed. Three of them came bounding across the street and, in a quick blink, jumped two of the cops who went down under the initial onslaught. Dean drew his machete, intent on taking one down fast. Before he took two steps, an arrow sprouted from one vamp's neck, a thru and thru shot. He glanced to see Clint, another arrow notched and ready to fly. That's when he saw three more men enter the fray, coming from Clint's left along the sidewalk. They were dressed in all black suits that looked like mixed pieces of Kevlar armor with flexible bo staffs. With an economy of sharp movements, one of the latecomers took down another cop leaving Cosgrow, Dean, and Clint, in the narrow empty parking space, trapped between them and the vamps.

"Take the vamps," Clint shouted to Dean as he jumped on the hood of a green Chevy Malibu, knocking aside splotches of still burning material as he moved onto the roof. Three twangs of the bow string, three arrows, and two of the fighters dropped. The third dodged with a roll impossible for a human, springing up in front of Crosgrow, slashing the staff across the deputy's midsection. The two vamps, true to form, barreled forward; Dean caught one with his first swing, slicing through the vamp's neck, head falling backwards and body crumpling down. The second grabbed Dean's arm, throwing him with a heave into the back of a mini-SUV. Dean tried to roll with the blow, coming up with machete at the ready in time to see another arrow emerge through the vamp's neck, blood spurting from the hole left by the large head.

The third fighter lay dead by the crumpled deputy. Clint jumped down and gathered up the arrows, cleaning them with a dark rag before he slid them back into the quiver. Dean checked on Cosgrow.

"He's alive, but we should get him some help." Dean put an arm under the man's shoulder and Clint took the other. The deputy groaned, but he struggled to walk on his own.

"The Campus Center is just up the street," he said between clenched teeth. "The clinic's there with the security office. I need to call this in. Fire department's already on the way." The three slowly began making their way down the street as a truck with sirens screaming came down the street, rolling up behind the empty patrol cars, fire fighters jumping down before the wheels stopped moving; a second set of sirens sounded in the distance.

"We've got an injured man." Clint took control of the situation. "Fire originated in the basement, mostly. Probably one victim inside. We're taking the deputy up to the campus center for help; he'll report from there." The firemen sprang to work, and Dean immediately began moving away from the action, his first thought to get away from the scene; the fewer questions and entanglements, the better.

The deputy was a trooper, Clint thought. They made the four blocks as quickly as they could with an injured man, as the bright lights of the fire and the trucks dwindled. People streamed out of the dorms and buildings of the small campus, some standing on the sidewalks and stoops, others moving slowly towards the conflagration. A heavy-set man, with the look of an ex-boxer, came down the sidewalk wearing a security uniform.

"Rob," Cosgrow called.

"Martin, what the hell is going on?" Rob demanded. "You're hurt." He reached out to help take the weight of the deputy.

"He needs medical attention," Clint said, "and we need to get these students off the streets."

A scream sounded from across the street. A gaggle of co-ed girls scattered, fleeing from a skinny vampire who was busy ripping out a victim's throat. Two more vamps came from different directions, out of the shadows of landscaping and half-lit buildings, targeting girls to drag down. Clint shifted Cosgrow to the security guard, freeing his bow from the sheath, notching an arrow and letting it fly in a thought. A blonde in sleeping shorts and tank stumbled away from a falling vamp, blood trickling from her neck.

"Three behind," Dean shouted, short barks of gunfire punctuating the words. Two more arrows for the other vamps, but it was too late for the first girl, who lay pooled in blood on the stoop of the dorm, framed in the circle of the outdoor floodlight. Clint whirled to face the new threat; Dean was fighting hand-to-hand with one of the black-garbed men, matching his street-brawling style with the other man's martial arts training. He was pretty damn effective, if not elegant, blocking the blows and getting in a few solid ones of his own.

"Rob, we've got to get these people into the center and keep them there," Cosgrow said as he lowered his gun. The deputy had gotten off two good shots when he saw them closing, taking one out with a hit to the knee. Dean must have taken care of the second who sprawled unmoving on the pavement. Clint, tracked Dean's opponent in his sight, hearing shouted instructions to the panicked people. With a sudden dodge, Dean slipped under the man's extended arm and slashed the machete up from waist to throat.

"Six again." Dean rolled one of the bodies over with his foot and squatting down to examine it. He pulled something from around the man's neck. "What do you make of this?" He passed an amulet up to Clint. It lay against his palm, flecked with blood: a series of three interlocking circles, two open on the outsides and one full in the middle. It was some sort of ceramic, with leather straps. Clint had never seen anything like it before.

More screams rang out from a couple blocks over. Clint's instincts told him this was just the beginning of a long night. He turned and headed out at a run, Dean following close behind.

The alleyway smelled of BBQ takeout and wet dog, but it offered a momentary safe haven from the ongoing battle. The small town rang with sounds of shotguns and screams, identifying the location of each new skirmish. The vampires were launching coordinated attacks alongside the others who were heavily armed, with a hell of a punch. The whole evening had turned into a major clusterfuck. Head in his hands, Dean shook it to clear the fuzz from that last blow and felt the blood flowing from multiple cuts, courtesy of a glass store front window one of the newbies had casually tossed him him through.

"Stop that," Clint said, pushing away Dean's hands to get a better look at his face. "You've got a scalp wound that's bleeding. Look at me, let me see your eyes." He forced Dean's chin up with his hand to check for any signs of concussion. Dean slumped against the brick wall, sliding down to rest his weight against the brick, letting the overflowing dumpster screen them from the main road. Shadows covered them both, offering protection from the roving teams on the street, allowing a moment to rest.

"I'm fine," Dean mumbled, coughing some blood out of his mouth. "I've gotta find Sam." They'd been trying to reach the library where they'd left Sam, researching or flirting with the cute brunette behind the checkout counter, but in the two hours since the explosion, they'd been stymied at every turn by too many teams of vamps and wanna-be supermen, indiscriminately targeting townsfolk. Sam wasn't answering his cell either. The teams sweeping the town were forcing people indoors, herding them together, and killing those who wandered too far outside. Dean had to admit that Clint was a good man to have around in a fight like this; those arrows kept magically appearing as they made their way through the city, taking out a large number of opponents. But he was worried about Sam; the attack was too coordinated, designed to cause chaos and keep the police and other authorities running from place to place.

"We can take five damn minutes to check you out," Clint said, leaning in close enough to Dean feel uncomfortable. Clint dug a piece of cloth out of one of the many pockets of his suit and wiped at the red rivulets running down the left side of Dean's face. That last hit had been a doozy, and Dean was seeing stars.

"It's all mine, from that damned window. Super ninja dude out just there wanted to show off." He shifted and a quick pain shot through his chest. Great, just what he needed, a broken rib on top of everything else. That would slow things down. He inhaled, filling his ribcage with air; there was sharp discomfort, but not the kind of slicing ache that indicated a break, at least one thing in their favor.

"Right, you're fine, big man." Clint continued to clean, slowly moving down by the left eye, where another cut bleed sluggishly. The cloth turned bright and muddy red, and Clint dug a second one out, stowing the dirty one away. "Out of ammo, you just keep swinging." Dean could say the same about Clint; he'd watched the agent take a number of hits that would have knocked down others and use that bow to bash a few heads when the bad guys got too close. Bloody slashes ran down the man's arms, and he was favoring his left knee where he'd taking a direct swing from a staff earlier.

The sound of feet pattered out on the street, but the runner turned before crossing the alley opening, the sound of pursuit following, fading off. Dean glanced up and, for a moment, caught Clint's concerned eyes. Surprised by the look, Dean wondered again just what was going on. No doubt, Clint was the real deal; he'd taken out more than his fair share with his fancy bow and arrows. Hardcore and, if he was honest, one of the best damn fighters he'd ever seen. Dean had learned the hard way that trust, even if earned, was a difficult thing. Time in Hell had taught him that. Trust or not, it couldn't hurt to have the agent on speed dial next time a big fight came up.

Dean's lip was busted, bleeding and swollen on one side. As Clint wiped near the cut, Dean sucked in a breath, hiding the hiss of pain. "Damn, Robin Hood," Dean growled, "just finish and let's get back out there." Clint's hands were gentle as he dabbed at the cut, despite the archer's calluses on his fingertips, and for a second, Dean let his brain settle. Time was a bitch and would demand they move on all too soon. The gentle slide of the cloth on his face felt good, and Dean could feel Clint's breath as he looked up, their faces close in the shadows.

"This one may need a stitch or two," Clint murmured as he dragged his thumb across Dean's upper lip, wiping away the blood. Clint's eyes dropped, followed the track of his hand and then met Dean's green ones, a quick flare of something there that neither of them imagined. He paused, and then made the motion again, thumb tracing the soft upper lip and the slightly parted lower.

"….. not over there. Head east down to Maiden and see if …" The sound of a conversation faded in and out as someone crossed in front of the alley. Both men held still as the sounds moved away from their location. Clint pulled his bloody finger away and wiped it on the rag. Dean tried to stand up, but a grunt of pain escaped and he slumped back down, glancing anxiously in case anyone had heard. Clint pulled aside Dean's button-up plaid shirt, moving Dean's arm, splaying his fingers over the tight black t-shirt, pushing lightly, exploring the extent of Dean's injuries. Dean kept eye contact, uncertain and cautious. The soft pressure hurt, but Clint's fingers left a warm trail as he moved, pushing back the ache. Every flinch was catalogued in Clint's normally steely stare, eyes darkened to azure. His fingers trailed little-by-little across the surface, a soft path that changed from pressure to strokes, deft touches that made Dean's heart speed up and his breathing hitch.

"Ow," Dean gasped as Clint found a tender area. The agent hesitated, and then moved away with reluctance.

"All right," Clint said quietly. "I don't think it's broken. We can wrap it tight with your shirt until we get you to a doctor." He slid his hands under the button-up shirt, onto Dean's shoulders, and started to push it off. "Can you get this off?"

"No problem," Dean muttered through clinched teeth as he lifted his back off the wall and let Clint pull the shirt down and off. He tried to reach the hem of the t-shirt, but couldn't raise his arms high enough. Clint's smirked, but Dean damn well did not want to ask for help. The whole situation was too weird as it was, unknown territory. But the pounding of his head stopped him from doing more.

"Here," Clint grabbed the hem and quickly bunched the material up around Dean's arms. "One arm at a time." Dean tried to ignore the feeling of the feather light touches as Clint worked the shirt off. He bent close and Dean felt the brush of fabric, Clint's fingers on his bare chest, a light touch of his hand against Clint's bicep to stay upright. The unintentional caresses roused him, making the pain recede behind a different kind of emotion. Clint tugged the shirt over Dean's head. With a fast movement, he slit the shirt in half with his knife. "Lean forward so I can tie this off." He wound the shirt tightly, quickly, and tied it off on the side with an easy knot. It hurt like a bitch, but the snug fit helped. When he swayed on his feet, Clint took Dean's shoulders and guided him back against the wall. Breathing shallowly, Dean realized that Clint's hands were resting lightly on his bare skin, his own fingers looped through the agent's belt for balance, faces even with each other. Taunt muscles moved beneath Dean's hand, as Clint leaned forward, shifting his right hand to the wall to brace himself. The potential of the moment yawned before them; only a thin space separated the two men. The intimacy of their mingled breaths made the sounds fade around them.

"Damn," Dean murmured and made the mistake of lifting his eyes. Tumult was mirrored in Clint's eyes, the same conflict felt by both. Clint leaned closer, closing the distance in a fraction of a heartbeat, sliding his hand up Dean's neck, fingers spread and thumb resting just below Dean's chin. Dean exhaled slightly as Clint's lips closed over his, a fleetingly gentle caress of sensitive skin against skin before Clint pulled away enough to look at Dean's face, as if to ask permission to continue. Then Dean lips found Clint's with a more demanding kiss, despite the pain of the cut. With a stroke of his thumb across Dean's stubble, Clint slid his hand slowly down, across to the shoulder, cupping it and, with a soft tug, pulled Dean forward until chest eased against chest. The fabric of Clint's suit rubbed across Dean's skin. Still looped around his belt, Dean's hands drew Clint closer, snuggling hips to hips, forcing Clint's head to tilt upward. The kiss deepened, lips slanting then parting under the pressure. Clint's tongue swept across Dean's lips, hesitantly, then more insistently.

They both felt the vibration of Dean's cell phone in his pocket, once, twice, and again. Their lips parted, hung near as if deciding whether to drop back into the kiss and let the damned thing ring. Clint drew back, and some measure of understanding passed between them. Sounds from the street came rushing back into focus. With a step, Clint separated himself and angled his body towards the entrance of the alley, back on alert for danger. Dean, fumbling with shaky fingers, dug the phone out and looked at the display.

"Sammy?" He said in hushed tones. "Where the hell are you?" He listened intently for a moment, giving them both time to gain their composure. "Yeah, stay there. We're heading to the motel to reload. We'll come get you." Another pause. "Keep as many of them safe as you can. These guys are crazy strong." Dean looked up at Clint, some humor turning a quirk of lips into a quick smile. "Yeah, he's fine. Wait until you see him in action. A real Green Arrow or something." Clint's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, call me at this number if it changes."

"Green Arrow?" Clint sounded upset. "Really?"

"Sam loved the Justice League when we were growing up," Dean hauled himself upright and gingerly slipped his arms into his button-up shirt. Leaving it hanging open, he took a step forward, then another, pleased he could walk out of the alley under his own steam. "Sam's with some civilians hold up in the courthouse. He got most of the people from the library there when the fighting started. We need to reload and get over there to help them. Vamps should go underground at first light. Any idea about the ubermen?"

Clint shook his head no. "If you can stand it, we're good to go. I'll head up the fire escape for a vantage point to cover you." He checked his quiver and snagged his bow from where it rested against the dumpster.

Dean wondered for a second what had just happened, but, hell, so many strange things had happened in his life, what was one more? He moved towards the mouth of the alley, letting the pain wash over and out ; a couple blocks stood between them and Baby. He'd think more about it after he had a full clip in his gun and his favorite shotgun. "Let's go," he said, but Clint had already disappeared up the side of the building to find a place above.


	4. Chapter 4

"Any ideas about those other guys with the vamps?" Sam passed Dean and Clint the half-empty mayonnaise jar; sandwich fixings were spread on the table in the break room. After the sun rose, the vamps and other fighters had disappeared, leaving bodies and wounded on the small town's streets. Police from various townships had rushed in to help; Deputy Cosgrow had refused a direct order to go the hospital, returning to the station instead. They'd found Sam and others, who had fallen back to the jail to defend innocents from attacks.

"Got anything besides swiss cheese?" Dean asked as he piled ham on bread. Raiding a cop refrigerator went a long way towards making Dean happy after a night of weirdness. Lots of leftovers from a party the day before yielded sandwiches for breakfast. "Any American?"

"Processed cheese? That stuff will kill you," Clint replied.

Dean noticed that Clint's sandwich was higher than his already, with mustard oozing off of the slices of rye bread. Raising his eyebrows at Dean, Clint shrugged and took a big bite. Slapping on the cheese, Dean started to eat. Things between the two men had settled back into a companionable ease. Dean certainly didn't want to think about the alleyway, and he was damn good at ignoring things he didn't want to deal with, especially when there was food around. Much better to give his brother grief about the cute young librarian than think about that unnerving kiss.

Cosgrow stuck his head through the doorway. "Those four places you asked about? They were all attacked last night. Luckily, no one seems to be hurt; the sites are trashed, but no bodies. We're checking into the attackers. Some were locals, known around town, but the ones in the uniform, well, we've got nothing." He was clearly upset about the situation.

"Sam?" Kate said from her place at the far end of the table where she had some books and Sam's laptop. "I think I've got something here." The necklace Dean had taken during the battle lay next to her. She turned the screen around to show an image of three interlocking circles, much like the ones on the necklace. "It's the symbol for the three goddesses of Greek mythology, sort of. It's slightly different though, look. In this, the waxing and waning moons are filled and turned away from the full moon. On the necklace, they're open and turned inward." She smiled as Sam came around behind her to look over her shoulder. He turned the screen back towards him.

"Associated with the Titan Selene, the goddesses Artemis and Hecate, sometimes Hera, and the Fates," Sam read. Dean winched when he heard the names and gave Sam a look of exasperation.

"Great. Atropos. Probably still hates us," he said.

"I take it you've met and been your usual charming self?" Clint asked.

"Hey, not my problem! I didn't unsink the Titanic," Dean complained. The librarian looked amazed at the statement, but Clint took it in stride. Nothing seemed to surprise him, Dean thought.

"At least I'd never have to hear that damn song again," Clint said with a shrug and kept eating.

"I know an angel who would agree with you." Dean finished off the sandwich.

"It could be linked to anyone of them," Sam said to get the conversation back on track. "As far as we know, Artemis, the Fates, and the rest are still around and kicking."

"Gods? Lovely. I've about had enough of family drama for a while," Clint muttered.

"Tell me about it," Dean agreed, wondering which of the ass wipes Clint had encountered. In Dean's experience, gods were just egotistical narcissists with too much power.

"And there's more," Sam continued, ignoring the byplay between the two men. "The symbol of three moons comes in a number of variations and can also be associated with the Celtic, Norse, and even Chinese gods."

"I'm pretty sure this has nothing to do with the Asgardians,"Clint said.

"Um, modern wiccans use it too," Kate offered, flipping open a book. "I just read that the phases of the moon are part of goddess worship today." She handed the book to Sam, their fingers brushing and her face reddening with a blush. Hiding a grin behind his hand, Dean snagged another piece of ham. "But I don't understand. Are these people who worship these old gods? Or Wiccans? They blew up a building and killed people. Why would wiccans do that?"

"Damnit," Dean said. "Not fucking witches again."

"Hey, not all witches are bad," Clint remarked. "I dated one once." Dean glared at him, not sure if Clint was joking or for real. Clint had a damn poker face; Dean couldn't tell when he was bluffing.

Sam laid a hand on Kate's arm and said in a sympathetic voice, "Not wiccans. Witches. Someone's aftersomething here in town, related somehow to the Underground Railroad sites around here." She stared blankly at him for a second, and then shook her head.

"You mean people who think they're witches, right? That weird group who was meeting at the library?" Her question grabbed the immediate attention of all the men, their intensity aimed at her.

"What group?" Sam asked gently, waving the others off. "Kate, it's okay, we just need to try and figure this out. Anything you can tell us will be helpful."

She took a breath before she answered. "They started about, let's see, four months ago. It was a reading group at first with a number of women, but then the group got smaller. Emily was one of the leaders; she reserved the room every week. One time, I went in just before a meeting to ask a question and there was stuff all over the table, a cloth, bowls, candles, some old books. Emily joked and said that they were reading some of those vampire books; not the ones the girls like, but the ones with all the sex and violence. Said they were learning about the history behind the myths." She actually shivered as she spoke. "It was kind of odd, if you ask me. They're all wives and mothers and pretty important in the community. But, hey, I read science fiction, so I felt like I couldn't say anything, you know?"

"Emily? The one who let us in the LeMoyne House?" Dean asked. Kate nodded hesitantly. "Who else came to these meetings?"

"Oh, let's see, well, Brenda from the front desk, for one, Brenda French. She likes to listen to the books on her ipod. She always made food for the meetings. Sometimes the Mayor's wife, Elisha, and Rhonda Preston. Her family runs three restaurants. But they pretty much stopped coming in the last few weeks. Oh, and Susie Gabriel. Her dad is one of the Gabriel brothers. They own half the businesses in town. Some others dropped in and out."

Clint was keeping pace with Kate as she announced the names, typing them into his phone for quick checks. "Let's see. Emily, Brenda … oh, Susie works at the Gabby Inn?" Kate nodded in response. "I'll have addresses here in a moment."

"That's damn handy," Dean said.

"There are perks to being on the payroll," Clint retorted. He scrolled through the information. "Ah, phone records. Interesting. It seems that Professor French's last conversation was on his personal cell phone, but, get this, it was not from his loving wife Brenda. It was from a burn phone. According to the GPS in Brenda's phone, she was at the grocery store calling someone else, oh, the Preston woman, to ask about … let's see … an order for a cake for a meeting. Someone else was arguing with the professor just before died."

"Oh, come on, you can't know what she was talking about," Dean complained. Clint simply looked back in reply, and Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"Who are you again?" Kate asked, her eyes wide, the question directed at Clint.

"Your tax dollars at work, ma'am," Clint said. "Speaking of the professor, do you still have that picture the ghost was so agitated about?" He directed the question to Dean, who rooted around in his pockets and found the photo in his jeans. Flattening it out on the table, he slid it between them. They both looked at it intently, heads bent close together. Clint put his phone over the picture, tapped the screen, and a magnification of the image appeared. "It's a free app," he said when Dean gave a snort in response.

"What's that on his lapel?" Dean asked, standing to hang over Clint's shoulder.

Clint magnified further and a grainy pixeled pin came into view. It was three crescent moons with some sort of small stones at shared joints. Clint took a picture and passed the screen to Sam who shared it with Kate.

"I saw that one," Kate exclaimed, keys clicking under her fingers. "Here it is. It's another symbol of the goddesses. Let's see …. It says the symbol was associated with the three faces of woman – virgin, matron, and crone. Later used by the Christian church to represent the Holy Trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I don't understand; why would Dr. LeMoyne have one of these symbols?"

"It must have been his mother's. That's what changed him, made him jump on the abolishionist bandwagon. If it is an artifact of power, it must be what they are looking for. They think that the pin is hidden somewhere in one of the railroad sites," Dean suggested.

"Then why blow up the museum?" Sam asked. "And go on the offensive? Something had to change. If they didn't find anything at the other sites, then wouldn't the need more information?"

"That's what we need to find out," Clint said. "Let's see if we can find these witches and get some answers." He pushed back from the table. Sam and Dean joined him, gathering their things.

The waiter at Denny's brought Dean's grand slam breakfast and Sam's salad to the table. The morning had been a bust; of the three women they'd tried to find, all were among the missing from the night before. Neighbors reported they left their homes early, before the fighting, and had not returned. It was as if they had skipped town, families in tow. Dean's eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and his ribs were sore; the long night was taking its toll. He tucked into the pancakes first, dousing them with maple syrup, hoping the rush of carbs would wake him up.

"Checked to see if Kate called yet?" Dean asked with a smirk. Sam had dropped the librarian off at her house where she had planned to keep researching university databases for more information. Then they'd hit their list of names, dividing up the work and leaving Clint at his Jeep.

"Enough, Dean," Sam said. "You want me to ask where your new boyfriend is?"

Dean's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "I don't have … he's not…" He caught Sam's smile and realized it was a joke, not an accusation. Damn, he was probably blushing like a school boy.

"Come on, Dean. He's perfect for you. And he has cool toys."

Dean could tell Sam was having a good time, but the jabs were hitting a little too close. "Okay, he has good taste in music, I'll give him that, but he's not Batman."

"Seriously? You check out that suit? He has a utility belt. Bet he's got rocket launchers in his car," Sam said with a laugh.

Dean almost choked on the coffee he had just sipped. Yeah, he'd checked out the suit and knew exactly how well it fit the man.

"You eating again?" Clint asked as he approached the table; he'd left the quiver and bow out in the car, making his outfit only slightly less unusual. He dropped down on the booth seat, forcing Dean to slide over to make room. Grabbing one of the biscuits on Dean's plate, Clint pulled it open and reached across the table for Dean's unused spoon, slathering on a pat of butter and some strawberry jam. As he took a bite, he noticed the brothers' faces. "What?" he asked as he finished off the biscuit in two more mouthfuls before the waiter came over and took his order for coffee.

"Just wondering if you had any luck. We've got nothing; three missing women and families," Sam said. Dean focused on eating each bite, uncomfortable with Clint's closeness on the seat, their elbows bumping as Dean's right arm bent with each forkful and Clint's left hand lifted the full coffee cup to his lips. Under the table, their knees touched then pulled apart, but Clint's thigh holster sat snug against Dean's leg, so he attacked a sausage link with his knife, shifting slightly away, hoping Sam didn't notice.

"That makes all of them then." Clint's ironic tone said that he knew it as no coincidence. "They cleared out before the evening's festivities. One could almost believe they knew what was coming. Mayor told his neighbor they had a family emergency out of state. The Preston's had a last minute vacation opportunity." Clint snagged a piece of bacon from Dean's plate.

"You know, if you want something, you could order your own," Dean complained.

Clint shrugged in return. "Not really that hungry. But if you're not going to finish those hash browns?"

Dean gave an exasperated sigh and shoved the plate over to Clint. "So where does that leave us? A coven of witches, all of whom have disappeared, a burnt-out museum, mystery fighters and vampires, and some goddesses? We've got some of the puzzle, but pieces are missing. Someone has to be controlling the men. And vamps have to be getting something out of the deal."

"I think the best we can do is regroup," Clint said. "There's no telling what will happen when the sun goes down. I need to reload and make a few phone calls, gather some information, pull in some favors. We could get Cosgrow to put an APB out for the women. Actually, a shower wouldn't hurt either."

Sam's cell phone buzzed; he answered and mouthed the word "Kate." Half-listening to his brother's end of the conversation, Dean admitted to himself that he was feeling the effects of the last hours. A caffeine buzz wasn't going to get him through a round two, if it materialized. The exhaustion also made it harder to ignore the pull of arousal from the man next to him, leaving Dean out-of-sorts and unsure of himself.

"Kate's got some information she thinks will be useful. She's going to bring it to the motel in thirty minutes. Something more about the symbols." Sam ended the call and slid out of the bench.

"We'll drop you off there," Dean said, taking the last biscuit with him as he followed Clint out of the seat. He needed some downtime, but Sam had that goofy look on his face, the one that said he liked this girl. Dean knew his brother and when he needed a push. "I'll grab a change of clothes. Secret agent man and I will see what his sources can come up with."

"Dean," Sam began, but Clint cut him off.

"She's coming to the motel, Sam. I don't think she's interested in playing bridge with a foursome. She didn't strike me as that type."

"No, much more the sexy-yet-innocent librarian," Dean concurred.

"Without the glasses."

"But with cute jeans."

"Maybe she just wants to help," Sam argued, uselessly.

"She's been attacked by vamps and ninjas, listened to us talk about gods, ghosts, and witches, and she's coming to the motel room," Dean said emphasizing the last phrase. "She's into you, dude."

"Definitely giving off the 'you-saved-me-let's-have-sex' vibes," Clint agreed.

Sam sighed and took Clint's five dollars as he paid their bill, not bothering to reply. Dean was sure Sam didn't really want to argue anyway.

The water was just short of scalding, the way Clint liked it. His skin reddened beneath the onslaught of the spray, easing tense muscles and soothing jangled nerves. Last night's work wasn't the problem; conditioning and hard work kept him battle ready. He didn't bounce back as quickly as he used to, but he could still kick ass. No, the knots were more about the man in the other room than the wounds of fighting. Dean had thrown him off-balance, an unexpected complication to the job. Damn, if he didn't like the guy, toughness wrapped around a mass of insecurities; Clint could certainly understand that. He enjoyed the banter, the back and forth, having someone to watch his back, someone who could handle whatever came their way.

He put his hands on the wall of the shower, the coolness of the tile welcoming under his palms, and ducked his head into the water, let the liquid heat beat onto his shoulders and neck and roll down the plane of his back, past his waist, and down his legs. With eyes closed, he remembered the feel of Dean's lips, the silken touch of tongue, the warmth of Dean's skin beneath his hand. He hardened and cursed to himself; cold water might have been a better idea. Yet he didn't move, letting his hand lift from the wall and slip down to touch himself. A quick though of Dean's hand touching, moving, and Clint groaned aloud, straining for more.

Dropping his head to the cool wall, Clint shoved the shower handle, water going hot to cold then cutting off, letting his skin cool in the ambient air of the room. He reigned himself in, forcing his mind back to his last conversation with Sam, while Dean was gathering some things from the hotel room. They had been waiting outside for Kate.

"_You know, Dean doesn't make friends easily," Sam started. "Last time he took to someone this fast, turned out to be a siren who tried to make us kill each other. If you're going to turn out to be an asshole, just do it now and let's get it over with."_

_It was definitely a don't-hurt-my-brother speech. The relationship between the Winchesters was one of the things Clint really liked about them; they were family, and family came first to them. His own relationship with his brother had been anything but close over the years; somehow, the adversities Dean and Sam had suffered had brought them closer together, not put them on different sides._

_Clint let the silence spin out for a minute before he answered. "I won't say that I can't be a bastard when I need to. It's in the job description. But I am damn good at recognizing the good guys in this world, and I would know, having been on the wrong side a few times over the years. I'd trust both of you to watch my back."_

_Sam thought about it, and then nodded. "That'll do, I guess."_

Clint started to shiver, still standing in the shower stall. He needed to get back to work, find some answers, and figure out what was going on. Thinking about Dean Winchester wasn't going to get any of that done. Stepping out onto the mat, he dragged the white towel from the rack and briskly rubbed his skin before wrapping it around his waist.

He opened the door to the bathroom, crossing the threshold of steamy air into the air conditioned room, goose bumps rising on his skin. One lamp by the bed glowed, leaving most of the room half-darkened by the closed curtains. Dean was sprawled on his back on the king-size bed; he'd taken off the makeshift t-shirt bandage and his boots while seated on the edge before falling backward. One arm was flung out across the comforter; the other forearm was resting on Dean's eyes, shading them from the light. Near the waistband of his jeans was a series of purpling bruises on his right side, covering his upper abs; balanced on top was the clear plastic insert from the ice bucket, filled now with partially melted cubes and wrapped in a white hotel washrag.

Towel slung low, Clint crossed the room and poured some Jim Beam into one of the hotel's generic glasses; a second glass, already used, had tiny drops of condensation running down, soaking the white paper coaster underneath. He tossed the whiskey back in one shot and filled it again, sipping this time. He moved to the bureau where he'd left his clean clothes, catching a glimpse of his own wounds in the mirror above. A series of angry red scratches ran down his right arm where a vamp had tried to disrupt his aim by yanking his arm out of its socket. Another cut fanned across his left thigh, not too deep; the swollen lips of the slice rubbed against the end of the cheap white towel that wasn't quite long enough to cover his leg. There were a deepening set of bruises of his own on his hip. He held his glass against the purpling area, letting it cool and numb the ache.

"Those look they hurt," Dean said from the bed; Clint could see him in the mirror, moving his arm above his head. The movement stretched the muscles across his chest, causing his back to arch slightly; he rolled his shoulder to a more comfortable position. Clint's fingers remembered the feel of Dean's abs, and he drank a long swallow of whiskey to clear the image from his head.

"Not too bad," Clint responded. "How's your head?" He turned, aware that moment was ripe with possibilities. The urge to not think, to take two steps and be within a hand's touch of Dean flitted across his mind, and he roused at the image. Just jeans and a towel stood in the way – and Clint's own reluctance to get involved. There was little concealed by the hotel towel, but Dean seemed to not notice Clint's growing reaction. He stayed where he was, laid out on the bed, an open invitation or just at ease; Clint wasn't sure which one he wanted it to be.

"Ah, so this is reverse one-upmanship? Yours is worse than mine? I'm fine, thanks for asking. It'll take more than a few hits to take me out."

There were lots of reasons to ignore the rising tension. First and foremost, they were in the middle of a case, the worst possible time to lose focus and with little time to waste. They still didn't know who was behind the attacks or why they were happening, and soon someone would demand answers for the fallout of the damage and deaths of the night. He'd rehearsed all of those in the shower and thought he'd brought his desire under control. But the whiskey went down easy, a warmth that joined the heat of his arousal. He sat the glass down on the edge of the bureau; he'd face a thousand enemies without flinching, but here he was, hesitating because of one man.

"I noticed that."

Clint's voice deepened and he stepped towards the bed before his brain could come up with another excuse. He took the ice bag and tossed it towards the table. Putting a knee between Dean's legs, he bent forward onto his hands, bringing his body parallel, chest above chest, face above face. He hung there for a second.

"Okay, this is weird," Dean muttered.

"Agreed," Clint answered, then dipped his head to brush a kiss on the tattoo on Dean's chest, floating his lips along the collar bone, breathing out and settling another kiss in the hollow vee of the collarbone. His lips followed the muscle up to Dean's chin, stubble a pleasant roughness against the pressure of each kiss. He continued along the jawline to the small lobe of the ear, gently pulling it into his mouth with a quick nip of teeth before letting go. Clint took in Dean's rugged face, arousal and confusion evident in his eyes. Shifting his weight onto his right elbow, Clint freed his left hand, balancing above Dean's prone body, close enough for his erection to brush against the crotch of Dean's jeans, rubbing the fabric of the towel and denim between the two, but not quite touching the bare skin of their chests. A stray droplet of water from Clint's still wet hair trickled down his jaw; Dean brushed it before it could slide all the way down and spread his hand out along Clint's cheek.

Clint let his thumb trace Dean's handsome face, moving down the cheekbones to slip into the groove under the nose; a feather light brush over the curve of the upper lip, down to the corner, then a heavier tug out onto the bottom, parting them, stroking just inside, pad of the thumb grazing Dean's tongue before slipping back down to the lower edge. Thumb in place, palm resting lighting on Dean's neck and fingers spread, Clint sank into the kiss, keeping bodies parted, slanting his lips across Dean's. Arousal pulsed between them, and Clint's body responded, a shiver of desire, the need to feel more, do more pushing him on. He deepened the kiss, more demand, a question as well as a statement. Dean answered by entangling a hand in Clint's hair, urging him into closer contact while letting the other hand skim up Clint's spine, feeling the tight muscles and curves. It wasn't enough; Clint let the tip of his tongue trail along Dean's lower lip before dipping into the parted space between, touching teeth and tongue. A shudder went through Dean's body, and Clint took the invitation to delve deeper, mouths tangling together. Dean's hand moved down, crossed the towel and cupped Clint, digging his fingers into the hollow where thigh met gluts. Fabric rubbed against fabric and drew a ragged moan from Clint.

They broke the kiss, and Clint gazed at the younger man, amazed at his response. Shifting back, Clint pressed his lips down Dean's chest as Dean sank his hands onto Clint's shoulders and down the muscular arms. Pausing to swirl his tongue around each nipple, Clint elicited a jerk and muttered curse from Dean that made him smile. Knowing that Dean was enjoying this drove Clint onward. Careful to avoid Dean's injuries, Clint sat up, straddling Dean's hips, slipping his hands under the snug waistband of the jeans, letting his fingers brush against the strained fabric. Groaning at the brief touch, Dean arched his back and bit back another curse. One edge of Clint's lips crinkled in a smirk; he liked the way Dean raised his chin and let his mouth open, and each of Dean's colorful responses made him grow harder.

With fingers dragging along Dean's skin and thumb on the denim, Clint moved his hand to the button and, with a quick motion, pushed it through, caught the zipper head and pulled. He had an urgent need now and his hands shook, ever so slightly, betraying his own state of arousal; he grabbed the open jeans, tugged them down, along with the briefs underneath. Dean lifted his hips as Clint stepped back off the bed, taking the jeans down and off. Dropping the towel beside the pooled denim, he knelt on the bed and put his hand on Dean's thigh, fingers trailing up the delicate inner skin, moving to cup the sensitive area with a soft pressure. Dean was hard and erect, velvety tip straining for a touch and Clint obliged, running his thumb up the shaft, twirling around the head, then back down.

"Fuck," Dean groaned, lifting his hips for more. Clint put his hands on either side of Dean's hips, shifting around. He exhaled as he bent his head down and held his lips just short of their target, letting the air wash over and down Dean's hard length before flicking his tongue in a quick circle around the edge and tip. Carefully, he glided his lips over, easing down then up, pausing at the top before starting again. Dean's response was more guttural, not even a word, and he reached for Clint's thigh, pulling him closer, giving his hands access. With a steady pace, even and deliberate, Clint kept his mouth moving, adding pressure as Dean's body reacted. Dean's fingers found Clint and he became even harder, the feel of Dean's hand curled around him bringing him closer to the edge. When fingers found a sensitive spot, Clint gasped and jolted, sucking hard. Restraint gone, Clint quickened his movements, driven by the feel of Dean milking him, taking him to the point of release. Dean thrust himself upward at the same time that Clint fell to the side, both men straining in climax.

Clint lay, spent, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do next. A witty rejoinder might work, if he could think of one, but he seemed to be speechless. Instead, he felt the sweat on his body cool and begin to dry under the onslaught of the air conditioning unit, and he let his hand lay where it had dropped on Dean's stomach. Dean's arm was resting across Clint's thigh, but Dean stayed silent too.

"Well, fuck," Dean said, after a few minutes.

Clint chuckled and Dean started to laugh; the awkwardness abated, somewhat, and Clint rolled over and up. The melted ice bag had opened and turned into a puddle of water and wet washrag. He used it to clean himself up, then tossed the rag as Dean sat up. Digging a pair of black briefs out of the drawer, Clint slipped them over his feet and up his legs. From his perch on the bed, Dean sorted out his own clothes from the floor, wincing as he bent over to pull up the jeans.

"Nothing yet," Clint said as he checked his phone. "Still a few hours to sundown. Anything from Sam?"

Dean dug his phone out of his pocket. "Last text was 'still working.' Subtle, huh?" He stretched back out on the bed, tossing the phone onto the end table. His eyes drifted shut. In the few minutes it took Clint to dress, Dean was slipping into sleep, body relaxing. Hesitating, Clint thought of all the things he should be doing; Dean cracked one eye open. "World's not going to end if you sleep."

Clint tucked the phone and earpiece in his pocket and crawled next to Dean, settling on his side, setting his internal clock to wake two hours before sundown. Eyes heavy and already closing, he fell asleep listening to Dean breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello?" Clint answered his cell on the first notes of "Free Bird." The light through the window was beginning to fade, casting the room in lengthening shadows. He listened, and then sat up; Dean was draped across the bed, taking up a good portion of the large mattress and was loathe to move. He'd long since learned to make do with whatever sleep he could snatch, but the added bonus of sexual release made him feel boneless. Besides, if he stayed still, he might keep his brain from obsessively turning the experience over again in his head.

"I'll check for it. That should help narrow things down. Anything else?" Clint stood and moved across the room with the cell tucked between ear and shoulder.

Dean felt the bed shift as Clint left, cool air from the conditioner replacing the heat from his body. Opening his eyes just a crack, he watch Clint moving and he could almost make out the female voice on the other end of the phone. A smile played along Clint's lips as he talked; he actually laughed at something and his eyes lit up. Sighing, Dean accepted the inevitable and got up. He checked his own cell and saw a text from Sam just a few minutes earlier.

"I've got this, Tasha," Clint was saying. "I'm not on my own." He laughed again. "No, not like New Orleans. You'd like them." He grabbed a black shirt and tossed it on the bed. "Really? Well, tell the big guy hi. Let me know if you have anything else. Yes, ma'am. I'll keep it on." He stowed the phone back in a pocket of his black pants and tucked an earphone in one ear.

"Sam's got some info. He wants us to meet them at another theater. " Dean put on his battle dress: jeans, t-shirt, green button-up. He checked his guns and machete, keeping it casual. Maybe if he pretended nothing happened, he wouldn't feel quite so damn awkward. Right, who was he kidding? He felt like he'd crossed into an alternate universe; just thinking about Clint's mouth on him made him respond instantly. He shifted the crotch of his jeans to ease the pressure and winched. He'd just have to not think about the snug black pants and shirt and … damn …. yes, there was a utility belt. "Seems a few years ago the LeMoyne foundation made a donation to the College drama department … props and other things … and some of the students might have shared things with a local theater."

Clint took a tablet out of his backpack and powered it up. "I've got some intel too, phone records and background. We're checking the other cities out for talismans connected to the gods. You drive?" He tossed Dean the keys to the Jeep; they'd left the Impala with Sam. Backpack, bow, quiver, and tablet in hand, Clint looked ready to go. Dean stalked out of the room, mind still on Clint, and they headed for the car.

Kate had discovered that W & J students had taken props and costumes to a recent run of _The Importance of Being Ernest _at The Little Lake Theatre, a quick 15 minute drive from Washington. What had once been farmland was now the growing suburb of Peters Township, a place where people moved to avoid the high taxes of the Pittsburgh and Allegheny County. Strip malls lined the road, along with restaurants and coffee shops. Traffic lined up at each stop light, but Kate knew a back way to avoid Old Washington Pike, so they made good time. The old barn that housed the company was perched beside a small body of water, generously called a lake. With no production currently running, the parking lot was empty except for a small compact car by the stage entrance. A young man in jeans and Metallica t-shirt was leaning against the car, waiting.

"Hey, Matt," Kate said as she exited the car. "Thanks for meeting us like this."

Matt's eyes traveled up and down Kate's figure, taking in her sandals, jeans and snug red shirt; his smile brightened until he saw Sam emerge from the car. Sam was a good head's height taller than Matt, and the young man glanced between the two; his smile dropped back into friendly range.

"No problem," he said, heading toward the theater as he shuffled his key ring. "You were a big help last year. We'd have never gotten the staging right without you." He unlocked the door. "Everything's pretty organized in here. We keep some of the donated LeMoyne clothes in our climate controlled storage for W & J – that's down in Donaldson's Crossroads. There was tons of stuff; I helped sort it all and catalogue it. Sometimes I work for the College as set designer. Anyway, if you tell me what you're looking for, I can point you in the right direction." He led them into a storage area behind the stage.

"We're looking for a brooch or pin," Sam said. "We think it was mixed in accidentally when the students worked on the play and we're trying to find it."

"The jewelry is over here," Matt pointed towards the back of the room. "The back corner beside the glassware. It should be clearly labeled." Kate and Sam headed down the row as Dean stopped inside the door. The room bore a resemblance to the place where the two college students died; here, the bins were labeled and stacked neatly on their individual shelves, costumes and props in their own concise areas, no destruction evident. Index cards written concisely with a sharpie were taped to each one announcing the contents.

Dean glanced at Clint, both thinking the same thing. "Matt? Besides students, do any of the professors form the college ever work up here?" The two theaters were so close that some cross-over of students would happen, but the block lettering of the tags looked all too much like the ones they'd seen yesterday.

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. Professor French is one of the regular directors. Does a production in our Shakespeare summer series," Matt practically gushed about the man. Obviously, he hadn't heard the bad news. "Remember, Kate? He took over _Macbeth_ and updated it? He's working on _Romeo and Juliet_ for this year."

Kate and Sam were out of Dean's line of sight, but he heard her positive reply from the far corner. Warning bells went off in Dean's head. If French made the connection between the donation from the LeMoyne house and the students working the production, then his wife and her coven might too. Dean gave a small nod to Clint, just in front of him and moved back towards the door; Clint dropped his hand by his gun holster, instincts on alert.

"Well, it took you long enough to lead us here," the voice behind them said. "To think that Brenda and I arranged the whole transfer. That was before we suspected what was in those old chests. Heavens, but that has caused us no end of problems. It's nice of you boys to help us solve them."

Emily Clutter stood in the hallway in an expensive Jones of New York suit, blue pinstripe pants, jacket and cerulean blue button-up shirt. The small gun in her hand looked like part of her well-put together outfit and perfect make-up, and she held it steady, eyes on the two men. Brenda French was behind her, with a bigger gun aimed their way, wearing the same clothes she had left the house in the night before.

"Mrs. Clutter?" Matt asked, surprised. "Mrs. French? What's going on?"

"Nothing to worry about, dear," Emily replied calmly. "You're just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now kindly ask the other two to move where we can see them and we can get this nasty business over with."

"It's just us," Dean said, buying time for Sam. Clint moved himself between Matt and the guns' line of fire. For a second, Dean thought they might buy it, but then he saw the woman's face. Her eyes flattened, and she huffed lightly.

"Now, don't try to sweet talk me. We watched you arrive in that very sexy black car." When no one answered, Emily sighed, but looked pleased. "Oh, good. You're not going to cooperate." She calmly pulled the tigger, bullet tearing through Clint's side before either man could react. The same men from the night before pushed into the room. Dean landed two solid punches before three men overwhelmed him; he saw Clint go down surrounded by four, then the butt of a gun cracked into Dean's head and the world went dark.

Head wounds bleed like a bitch. Clint turned his neck so the warm liquid would ooze away from his mouth and tried to throw off the fuzziness behind his eyes. His arms were wrenched above his head, shoulders extended, wrists crossed, and bound with some kind of coarse rope that was already biting into his skin. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but he remembered the feel of the bullet and then blows to his head and a vicious kick. A fire spread along his side, through his ribcage, and the throbbing in his knee was constant; abused muscles seized up as he tried to roll to his side, pulled back in place by more ropes around his ankles. Biting back a groan, he blinked away the crust of blood and opened his eyes, trying to focus.

Above was a corrugated metal ceiling, iron beams supporting the roof and walls. A few small windows were up high, but little to no outside light came in; it was still full dark outside. The space was clearly a warehouse of some kind, used mostly for storage. Industrial lights shone around him, but shadows covered the rest of the room. A table, metal from the feel of it, pressed against his bare back; he realized that his shirt was gone along with all of his weapons and phone. Even his earpiece was missing.

Turning his head, he caught sight of Dean, slumped against a metal pole, hands and feet secured with rusty chain. His head sagged, chin to chest, a flow of crimson covering temple to jaw. He still had his t-shirt on, patches stained with blood, but all his weapons were gone. Crumpled in a chair next to Dean was Matt, the young man from the theatre, bruises marring his chest and torso, head hanging back, face to the ceiling. Neither Sam nor Kate were there; Clint continued to scan the room and saw that Emily and Brenda were huddled together with the younger Susie Gilbert around a coffee pot and microwave on the wall opposite the closed loading door.

"Oh, you're awake!" Emily said, a vicious slash across her face that bore little resemblance to a smile. She strode across the space, cup of hot coffee in her hand. "I was just telling the girls how much I enjoyed searching you. Such deep pockets filled with the most interesting things. You are quite a mystery, Mr. Barton. Bows and arrows. Very Freudian, don't you think?"

With deliberate pressure, she dragged her fingers across the wound on his side, watching his face for a reaction. When she didn't get enough of one, she pouted, pursing her lips, giving her head a little shake, and then she pressed harder until Clint flinched.

"What we need are some answers, Emily," Brenda said, her voice surprisingly melodic, a lovely alto, with a slight accent that Clint couldn't place. "That first before you start to play."

"Is this really necessary?" Susie asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Oh, stop whining, Susie," Emily snarked. "You were perfectly willing in the abstract. You're just getting squeamish now that people are bleeding. Suck it up."

As she spoke, Emily tipped her cup slightly and let the hot liquid splash onto Clint's bare chest. Red spots appeared, but he kept a tight rein on his face. Emily was the type who liked to cause pain, probably got off on it; Clint had met people like her before and had survived worse. She stared at him, a hint of anger slipping into her eyes, then palmed his crotch and gave him a hard squeeze. The woman had fingernails and she used them on the sensitive area, a grin blossoming when Clint sucked in air and tried to keep steady.

"Men aren't so tough, really," she all but purred into his ear as she leaned over him. Another squeeze while her lips brushed his earlobe, a small laugh escaping before she let go. "Now, tell me where your friends disappeared to with the pin."

She blew on the coffee to cool it before she took a sip. Clint remained silent, processing the information. Sam and Kate must have gotten away somehow; either the talisman wasn't there or they'd found it and taken it with them. He fought the urge to look over at Dean to check on him, instead keeping Emily's attention on him.

"Come on now," Emily said in her forced cheerfulness. "Little miss nosey Kate from the library and the big handsome guy, you know, the one with the big hands, package deal with his brother over there. Where are they?"

Her voice took on new menace as she sat the cup down on a shelf. Shrugging out her jacket, she took a small stiletto from her Dooney and Burke purse. With reverence, she ran the pad of her thumb up the flat of the blade, caressing the metal.

"Em," Brenda warned.

"Oh, for the Goddess' sake, give it a rest," Emily retorted. "You're as bad as Martin. Be a good wife, be normal, that's weird, you're sick. Quit trying to be my mother. It's not like I don't know what turns you on." She gave the other woman a telling look. Brenda gave her a disapproving look, but kept quiet.

A cell phone rang with a cheery pop tune. Susie took a smartphone out of her purse on the table and answered it. Emily continued hovering over Clint; her eyes were losing focus, her breathing faster. Leaning against the table, she began to hum and map the lines of his abs with the knife tip, skirting the edge of the ragged gunshot hole. Clint closed his eyes and shoved the pain down, thrusting it away from his consciousness.

"They're not at the hotels, Kate's house or the library. The men are watching, but they don't think they'll go back to any of those places," Susie reported as she hung up. Emily grimaced at the news, banging the hilt of the knife on the table.

"Incompetent! Why we get these worthless, good-for-nothing …" Emily cursed. "As important as this is, we get vampires and rent-a-thugs. Well, we women will clean up the mess."

With a flick of her wrist, she slashed the knife across Clint's ribcage, just under his nipple, drawing a line in the skin, blood welling up. In quick succession, she made three more cuts, parallel, each a little deeper than the last. "Time's up, handsome. Tell me where they went." When he didn't answer, she climbed up on the table, straddling his hips, grinding herself against him, a small moan escaping her lips, causing a hiss of agony from Clint.

"God, Em, get a grip!" Susie rubbed her hand on her shoulder, her unease evident. Half-excited by Emily's actions despite her warnings, Brenda watched intently as Emily unbuttoned her blouse and bent down over Clint.

"They're not going to help you, lover," Emily whispered to him, face close to his. "They're all afraid of me. She put me in charge because she knew I would do what had to be done. And I will. And I'll enjoy it." Running her hands over the bloody cuts, she raised one to trace his jaw, painting a red streak as she went. Coating her hand again, she ran her thumb across Clint's lips, covering them with blood before she angled down and kissed him, crushing her lips to his. Catching his bottom lip with her teeth, she bit down hard. A metallic tang filled his mouth as she dipped a finger from her other hand into the hole in his side, sending a spike of pain straight to his head, ripping a groan from him.

A sound came from the chair as Matt began to wake up. Susie moved towards him, clearly intending to help him, but Emily's head came up and she snapped, "No." In a smooth motion, she was off the table, knife in hand, and Susie quickly stepped back. Emily stood, eyed Matt, but then turned to Dean. Her bloody lips widened in a scary smile and she forced his face up.

"Well, aren't you a fucked-up witch," Dean said, hauling back his head and smashing it into hers. Emily reeled back as Dean strained against the chains. Brenda squealed; Emily caught herself on the edge of the table. Hissing with anger, she plunged the knife into Clint's arm with a quick stroke, driving deep; he jerked away as she yanked it out and let it hover, red droplets spattering the table, her shirt, and Clint.

"Try that again, big boy, and I'll make more cuts in your boyfriend here."

"Back off, bitch." Dean stayed where he was as his eyes flicked to Clint before settling on the woman with the knife. "I'll kill you if you touch him again."

Eyes darting between the two men, Emily let a wicked grin spread across her face. "Oh, so that's how we going to do this? This is going to fun. Brenda, dear, point your gun at lover boy here on the table, please." The other woman hurried to do as asked. "Now, handsome, I'm going ask one more time. Where's your brother and the girl?" With a predatory walk, Emily circled Dean, letting the sharp edge of the stiletto slice across his bicep, shoulder and chest as she came to face him.

"How the hell do I know where they are? There wasn't exactly time to plan an itinerary after you crashed the party."

"You have a smart mouth," she said as the cool metal of the knife came to rest just behind Dean's ear, held in place by her right hand. "Very nice one, too." With an unnerving chuckle, she smeared her finger through the blood on his face, mixing it with the covering of Clint's, bringing it to her mouth and sucking gently. Grabbing Dean's chin, clamping her left hand viciously around his jaw to hold him in place, she ground her lips down on his, slamming his head back against the pole, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth.

"You're almost too pretty, really," she said, voice heavy with arousal. "I tend to like ruggedly handsome like your boy toy over there. They can take more before they crack. But I think I can make an exception for you. A few scars on those charming cheekbones might help." Almost dancing with excitement, she moved the knife just below Dean's eye and let the sharp tip break the skin, lightly drawing a short line that paralleled his cheek.

"Um, seen _Fatal Attraction_ one too many times?" he asked, menace coloring his voice. "You've got psycho-bitch from hell down pretty well."

"Sociopath," Clint offered from the table. "There's a difference."

He'd been watching the byplay, waiting for a chance to distract Emily. One of them needed to be able to take advantage of any opportunity to escape; if Emily sliced them both up, getting out of here would be more difficult.

"Yeah, but socio-bitch doesn't have the same ring to it," Dean countered.

"Boys, either tell me what I want or I'll have to bring in the tarp for the floor." Emily said, looking at both men.

"I said, we don't know," Dean replied.

"Emily, I think they're telling the truth," Susie said. She'd moved closer to Matt who was awake, but groggy.

"Is that your special sense at work? The one that told us the pin wasn't here in Washington?" Emily mocked the younger girl.

"Mrs. Clutter?" Matt asked groggily. "What's going on?"

In a split second, Emily stepped to the young man and cut his neck in one swift strike, blood spurting in arterial spray that painted Emily's shirt with red and Dean's side. Susie gasped, turning her face aside, as the drops fell in her hair. Cursing, Emily dug her fingers into Dean's arm, drawing blood with her nails.

"Enough," Emily spat. "I'm tired of this shit. No more talk. Time to play."

"You're right, that's enough." Brenda aimed her gun in Emily's direction. "We need to keep focused on the goal. There will be time tomorrow to play, Em, after the sun comes up. Susie, call those men and get them to convey our guests somewhere safer now that this is a crime scene. Emily, you need to leave first; Susie and I will make sure things are cleaned up here. Oh, and ditch the knife somewhere, Em. Don't take it home with you for your collection."

Clint's attention lasered in on Brenda. Calm and collected, she was suddenly unaffected by the violence, a different reaction than earlier when she'd seemed uncomfortable with the gun.

Emily's face flushed with anger, and she pressed her lips together to keep from responding. Like a child, she screwed up her face with displeasure; as a parting shot, she slashed across Dean's abdomen, opening a wide cut, leaving him bleeding and gasping.

"Fix them up enough to keep them alive, but in pain. I want to burn off more steam later," Emily demanded of Susie. With a nod to Brenda, Emily stalked over to the table and grabbed her purse, buttoning her shirt, imprinting the cotton with little bloody fingerprints to add to the rest. The spots made her smile. In another moment, she was gone.

Susie went to Clint first, placing an open hand over his heart and another on his forehead. Closing her eyes, she calmed, taking deep breaths. Clint felt warmth spread down his body, pain easing back from the edges of the knife cuts, then the gunshot wound, then the stab in his arm. He could feel the flesh knitting together, healing days in just a few seconds. Bending over, Susie breathed gently into Clint's mouth, the air heated and moist, a pulse of energy that drowned out the ache in his skull.

"Don't move until we're gone," she whispered. "Apartment 23 at Maiden Court should be safe. They don't know about it." Standing back up, Susie moved her hand from Clint's chest to the button of his pants and said a few words in a language he didn't recognize. The ropes loosened and the tension in his arms and legs eased, but Clint kept still.

Moving on, Susie did the same to Dean. The chains clattered at one point as they loosened; Dean pulled against them to mask the noise.

"You go on and head out. I can sit here and wait." Brenda shooed the young woman towards her purse and the door. Susie gave one look back at the men, but let herself be ushered out of the warehouse. After the door closed, Brenda headed between Dean and Clint.

"So, Mrs. French," Clint said. "Are you going to tell us what's going on here?"

Brenda simply smiled at him. "I knew you were a smart boy." Her smiled broadened and she pulled her cell phone out of a pocket, speed dialing. "I've got something you might be interested in. Yes, dear. One of them anyway. The other can't be far. Plus an extra added bonus. Hurry though. It's first come, first served." She clicked the phone closed. Stepped closer to Matt's body, she dipped a finger in his congealing blood, pausing to taste it.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Okay, little librarian is bad guy? I should have seen that one coming."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean looked at Clint, worried about the damage the psycho-bitch inflicted. A sharp knife cut hurts like hell in even the shallowest of scratches; his own wounds were still throbbing even after Susie had healed him. Clint caught his gaze and gave him a shallow nod when Dean flicked his eyes at Brenda, ready to back any play Dean made.

"Ah, young blood really is the most powerful." She wiped at her mouth with the end of Matt's shirt and turned her attention away from the dead man. "What's that old song?" She launched into the tune with a surprisingly nice voice. "Young blood, get out of my mind. My love for you is way out of line." She stopped and laughed. "Sorry, I think that's young girl. Still, you can know a fucking lot about someone from their blood." She took a taste from both Dean and Clint's wounds, savoring each like a connoisseur, reaching into her purse for a wet wipe to clean up afterwards. Drawing out a silver flask, she unscrewed it and took a swig. "Damn, that's good. Emily's so fucked up that I have to stay sober around her or she'll freak." After another drink, Brenda sat on the edge of the table by Clint, leg swinging. "Now I know that you don't have the damn Cauldron. Blood tells. A fucking powerful thing, that pin. In the right hands, anyone with the least bit of sensitivity would know it was here. Let a weak witch like Susie get hold of it, and she could level the city. If bloody Hera finds it, well, who knows what that menopausal bitch would do? But it's still hidden somewhere. We haven't found it."

"Hera?" Dean asked.

"Holier-than-thou self-styled Queen-of-the-missionary-position Hera, dear boy. Jealous cunt thinks she can gather all three pieces of the moon." A girlish giggle escaped and she grinned, showing red stained teeth. "Seems there's a power vacuum, what with all the dead gods and powerful villains that have been ganked lately. Hera believes it's a sign for women to take over, specifically her uptight ass. Of course, she's forgotten all those she's fucked over the centuries. Thinks she can use the very people she's shit on to do it."

"Sounds like a sweetheart." Dean watched Brenda carefully as she paced. "So, why are you here?"

"Ah, now, I'm not going to frickin' hand you everything on a silver platter," She said, stopping to face him. "Besides, someone will be here soon for you boys. Wonder which ones it will be? The vamps or my boys?" She checked her watch and then her phone.

Dean pulled free of the chains Susie had weakened and launched himself at Brenda. Quick as a snake, she slipped away, dodging his charge, letting his momentum carry him past her. Lashing out, she back-handed him and carried him down to the floor with her weight, sitting on his chest to keep him immobile. She bent forward towards him and laughed merrily; her breath was spicy and alcohol-laced. Clint rolled off the table and grabbed for her, but she was simply not there when his hands reached her. Her laughter echoed from the doorway and there she stood, green eyes sparkling.

"Oh, you boys are fun!" She exclaimed. "I almost wish you luck, you know. Just for my own amusement. But there are debts to repay and the dead to deal with." She disappeared from view.

"What the hell?" Clint asked, favoring his right side as he offered Dean a hand up.

"Good to know I'm not the only one who doesn't have a clue," Dean mumbled.

Clint grabbed his weapons and phone. Dean took the backpack from Clint along with his own stuff as they exited the building into the parking lot; morning was evidently not far away as the sky was beginning to lighten despite clouds. Brenda's blue Subaru sat under the one working light. The sound of an approaching car echoed off the metal building; the industrial area was deserted except for a dark Suburban approaching at a fast speed down the small, unlined street. Breaking into a full-out run, Dean and Clint raced for the car as guns appeared in the windows of the SUV; bullets hit the concrete as they ducked behind the Subaru.

"Cover me." Clint shook open his bow and notched an arrow; Dean cocked his gun and both stood up at the same time, Dean pumping out bullets as Clint took aim. The arrow punctured the back driver's side tire of the black car; the driver fought for control, swerving dangerously close to the shoulder. He had almost straightened out when the explosion ripped through metal, gas tank blowing as the arrow detonated.

"Fucking exploding arrows?" Dean said in disbelief. "You have the coolest toys." Clint grinned.

Another squeal of tires drew their attention; appearing around a corner, the Impala took the turn at too high a speed, bounced back wheels into the grass, fishtailed and kept coming. Close behind was another SUV, a semi-automatic spitting fire out of the passenger side window.

"Damn. He better not get a scratch on my car," Dean growled, popping out the empty cartridge of the gun and slapping in a new one. "Got another trick in that bag?" Twisting his arm behind, Clint grabbed another arrow, nodded to Dean, and they both fired. The Impala veered around the burning chassis of the first car, turning into the parking lot just as the second car erupted, the blast blowing it sideways into a parking lot of another warehouse across the street.

"Get in." Coming to a stop, Sam called out of the open window. "There are cops on the way."

Both men piled into the back door, tossing the backpack onto the floor. Sam pealed out and headed the opposite direction, turning left at the first available street, and then dropping down to a reasonable speed as they drove out of the industrial park. Sirens wailed, but grew fainter as Sam turned onto a wider street. In the back seat, Dean pulled himself off of Clint who was smashing Susie against the door handle. Kate was holding on tightly in the front seat; Sam glanced in the rearview mirror.

"You guys okay?" He asked anxiously.

"We'll live," Clint answered. Dean did a quick inventory, feeling wet blood on his shirt. Despite the darkness of the car, enough light came in from outside to see that Clint's gunshot entry was bleeding. Slipping off his t-shirt, Dean wadded and held it to the wound, applying pressure. Clint put his hand over Dean's; red with Clint's blood, Dean's finger tangled with Clint's as they both held the make-shift bandage in place. The warmth of Clint's skin surprised Dean, and he felt Clint's rugged fingers flex over his own.

"Where's Matt?" Kate turned in the front seat, eyes wide as she saw the blood and wounds. Dean looked at Sam in the mirror and gave a negative shake of his head. Kate gasped and sank back down.

"Is Brenda still there? That was her car." Susie spoke for the first time. Drawing inward, she made herself small in the corner of the seat. "I hoped we'd get back to you before the others did."

"Turns out, Brenda isn't exactly human." Dean could see the shirt darkening, Clint's blood soaking through. Susie followed his eyes.

"You're bleeding." She reached for both of their hands and pulled away the bloody cloth. "I'm not sure if I can do any more than I already did, but let me see."

"He's shot," Kate told Sam after a quick look. She sat up on her knees and pulled off her t-shirt, leaving a lacy black bra. Leaning over the back of the bench seat, she offered it to Susie. "Here." Reaching as far as she could, she balanced her hips on the top edge of the seat and braced one hand between the two men, the other pressing the shirt in place. Susie grew quiet and placed her hands on Clint. Sam took a turn in the car and Kate slid towards Dean, almost crashing down. Dean propped her up, and she nodded in thanks, noticing the slices and drying blood on Dean's chest.

"What they hell did they do to you?" Kate asked, her voice low and intense. Her eyes flashed, angry, and displeasure settled across her features. Dean was surprised by the change, but then she smiled and the look was gone.

"Most of it isn't my own."

"Hold this," Kate said to him. "I'm about to fall and Sam needs directions." She took Dean's already bloody hand in hers and placed it over the cloth. Guiding Clint's hand back over Dean's, she put her small hand on top. A pulse of something, static in the air or a connection between their bodies, lanced through Dean, down and out into Clint, the pressure of Kate's hand keeping the men's from jerking away. A mysterious smirk on her lips, Kate pulled herself over the seat and back into the front of the car. Dean couldn't help but follow her movement; just before she turned around, she winked at him.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked. He'd taken them on the interstate to get away, carefully driving just above the speed limit. Concern was evident on his face as he tried to see what was happening in the backseat.

Susie took her hands away from Clint. "That's all I can do. I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this. I can heat up tea really well." She shrugged, upset that she couldn't do more. Dean eased Kate's shirt away. Red and angry, the wound had stopped bleeding.

"I'm fine." Clint sat up straighter. "No salsa dancing tonight though." He winked at Susie in way of thanks.

"Take I-79 South then get off at the Laboratory exit," Kate directed Sam, stifling a yawn with her hand. "The apartment isn't far."

"So, Brenda's … what?" Susie asked. "How could she not be human? She's been in town for years. Worked in the high school when I was there, in the drama department."

"I don't know what she is. There are a lot of things that can look like someone else, take their place." Dean carefully gathered up the bloody shirts and tucked them into Clint's back pack. With all the witches around, you couldn't be too careful. "Whoever she is, she had a real bone to pick with Hera, though."

"Hera?" Kate's question was pointed at Dean. "The Queen of Greek Gods?"

"According to Brenda, Emily was acting under Hera's orders to find the Cauldron of Hecate." Dean held on as Sam slowed down when someone pulled out in front of them from a short entrance ramp. "The Cauldron is LeMoyne's pin. And there's two more pins or talismans somewhere. What did she call it?"

"The pieces of the moon," Clint supplied. "Each piece powerful; all together super villain status. Hera wants to set herself up as queen bee, take the place of the fallen powers."

"Emily says Hera promised us power, whatever we wanted." Susie stopped and closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

"What about the vampires and the other men?" Clint let her stay silent a moment, deal with the trauma, before he asked.

"That part I don't really understand, except that Emily said Hera was using local muscle to help her. I just know that the vampires scared me. The other men came from out of town. Emily called them true believers."

"Well, Brenda was on speed dial with the vamps. She called them right after you left. First come, first served buffet for either group. The Alpha Vamp would have loved to get his hands on us." Dean interjected.

"That was who she was called? Boy, you have enemies in high places," Clint remarked. "You sure nobody's trying to sell you on ebay?"

Susie had grown quiet, turning her face towards the window, staring at the night outside. Clint noticed and turned towards her. "You tried to warn them off, didn't you? Tell them it wasn't here?" The car slowed down as Sam exited the freeway; Clint's voice was softer now. "Did you know that it would remain hidden until someone with power picked it up?"

Susie seemed to deflate, the tension of the night evident in her slumped shoulders. "I thought I could point them in the wrong direction; at first, they were blowing off steam, you know, complaining about their lives. That was the first group, a Wiccan reading group. But Emily was just sorting out those with power and those without. Pretty quickly I realized she was serious. Then I stayed because I thought I could get them out of town; if they didn't find it, they'd forget it all. Or find it and hide it from them." She let her head fall against the window. "But people are dead and Hera's going to find the Cauldron, isn't she? Matt, the people on the street, Dr. French, those boys at the college, the family…." She trailed off and lapsed into silence.

"They don't have it yet. We get to it first, then, I don't know, melt it down or throw it in a volcano or something," Dean said. He saw the now familiar amused look on Clint's face.

"Virgin sacrifices and Mount Doom aside, if we find the cauldron, I can take care of it."

"The big warehouse in D.C. with the Ark of the Covenant, right?" Dean shot back.

"The question is how we find it," Sam said as he pulled the Impala into an apartment complex, following Susie's instructions around the back, away from the view of the street, backing into a parking spot between the garbage dumpsters and a building. He cut the engine. "Look, if it's hidden until someone picks it up, the only way to find it is to track it through research. That's why they hit the underground railroad sites; they thought LeMoyne hid it in one of them. Then they went for the donated chests to the theater. We just have to figure out what they missed."

They piled out of the car into the parking lot; Dean used the pretense of reaching for the backpack to also grab Clint's bow and quiver, leaving him nothing to carry up the back stairs.

Susie spoke to Sam. "Look, I've got to go. I can keep tabs on what Emily's up to and let you know. Here's the apartment key; I stocked up a few days ago when things got really bad, just in case. They shouldn't be able to trace you here; I used a false identity to sign the lease and pay the rent." She started to walk away.

"Hey," Sam called. "You still haven't told us what your part in all this is. Why are you doing this?"

Susie looked back at them and, in the dim parking lot light, Dean thought her eyes lingered on Kate a second longer than the rest of them. "Just because I have power doesn't mean I'm a witch, you know. There are deities that aren't crazy or homicidal, and people who still worship them." With that, she turned away, heading towards a car parked under an awning.

Kate yawned, the sound loud in the night's silence, arms wrapped around her torso, shivering without her shirt. "I know we need to keep searching, but I need a few hours of sleep. Look, I can crash at Rhonda's place; her family's out-of-town for the week, and I know where they keep the key. It's not far from here. Can I get a lift?"

Clint started up the stairs to the second floor landing; Dean held back, giving Sam the "we-need-to-talk look", nothing subtle about it. "Sure," Sam said. "I'll be right there. Go ahead and get in the car."

"Something's up with your girlfriend, dude. Back there, in the car, she did some sort of hoodoo on Clint. Magic, Sam." Dean eyed his brother; Sam didn't look surprised. "She's a witch, isn't she?"

"She's not a witch," Sam argued. "She's a healer, and she told me yesterday. She helped heal people who were injured. Look, Dean, she's not involved with Emily and the others; she knows Susie. That's how we found you tonight."

"Sammy, I'm telling you, my spidey-senses are tingling. There's more to it than that."

"I agree, but she's on our side. When she's ready, she'll tell me."

"Oh, you're that close, eh? Are you sure you're not blinded by her charms?"

"Dean …."

"I think you need to keep a very close watch on her … unless you want me to do it?" Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother.

Sam eyed the stairwell where the apartment door was slightly ajar. "You've already got your hands full, so I can handle Kate." Dean dropped his eyes so Sam didn't see his blush at his brother's choice of words. "Do you trust Clint?" Sam asked.

"He saved my life a couple times in the last 24 hours. For a government type, he's not all that bad." Dean was beginning to have his doubts about the whole homeland security thing, but not about the man himself. "And I'll admit that he has cool toys."

"Batman," Sam said.

"No, more like Bond, James Bond." Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Look, we'll regroup in the morning. Watch yourself. Bring breakfast. Something greasy with sausage. None of that health crap you eat." He gave his brother an affectionate slap on the back in parting.

The apartment was small, but nice, and the refrigerator and cabinets were stocked. The end unit's door opened towards the wooded hillside with little chance of prying eyes catching a glimpse of anyone coming or going. Susie had planned her bolt hole well.

Clint came out of the bathroom, drying his face on a towel, as Dean took a beer out of the fridge. "You should wash up first." He nodded towards Dean's face and tossed him the towel. Setting the beer down, Dean headed into the surprisingly nicely appointed room, a double sink vanity, soaking tub, and tiled stand-up shower, a step-up from the usual places he stayed. The mirror showed red smears down the left side of his face, across his mouth and along the red line of scar on his right cheek. Spatters of Matt's blood ranged down his right side and Clint's blood was drying on his hands.

"Well, that's attractive." He used another towel and washrag, cleaning off his face and hands. "I hope there's no blood in the car."

When Dean came out, Clint was leaning against the breakfast bar, a half-empty bottle in his hand, notebook powered up next to him, reading intently.

"Man, why didn't you tell me I looked like the Joker?" Dean demanded as he picked up the bottle he'd left out and drank a long swig. "I'm going need to hose down to get all this off."

"She did a number on us both." Clint scrolled the screen with his thumb then tapped to open a new file. "I'm going to enjoy wiping off the stench of her crazy."

"Well, if she's working for Hera, I'd say they're made for each other. Vengeful spouse from hell with randy hubby. I bet you a chili cheeseburger that Emily's husband ran off with another woman."

"His daughter's third grade teacher, 24-years-old, quite a looker. They got custody of the kids and moved to St. Louis. Court records show that Emily was pretty much stalking them when they were here; she continued to make threatening calls and harass them even after they left. A restraining order was issued about nine months ago." Clint read from the file he opened. "No bet there. But you can buy me a breakfast burrito in the morning."

"Sam's bringing something when he comes back."

"You warned him about Kate before you came up?"

Dean nodded. "She told him she was a healer like Susie, not a witch. He bought it. Thinking with his other head. Said he'd be careful."

Clint almost choked on his beer when he laughed, then swallowed. "Could be true, the healer part. The gods are fond of granting abilities to their followers, especially priest or priestesses. The Vestal Virgins are treated like rock stars and have psychic powers. Artemis gives the Amazons their strength and skills in battle."

"Oh, let's not go there," Dean muttered and drank a long swig, finishing off the beer. He noticed that Clint always talked about the gods in present tense. "So what does Hera give her followers? Bondage lessons?"

"Happy marriages, children, fertility …. Actually her priestesses are often midwives. But she also offers vengeance for cheating and abusive spouses. She's one of the three goddesses associated with the phases of the moon and the blood cycle."

"Well, Emily certainly liked blood." Dean got two more bottles and passed one over to Clint. "Let me guess, Hecate is one of the other two?"

"Hecate and Artemis. Artemis is the virgin, the young woman, the waxing of the moon. Hera, the wife and mother, the full moon. Hecate is the waning and dark of the moon, the crone, but not necessarily an old woman. More like the wisdom and knowledge of age. She's supposed to be very beautiful."

"A goddess you haven't met yet? Did she miss mix-and mingle night?" Dean jabbed. "She's the goddess of magic, right? Cauldrons are associated with witches."

"Magic and power over death and the underworld. She helped bring Persephone back after Hades kidnapped her."

"So which of the other two are Susie and Kate working for? That's the million dollar question." Dean moved towards the bar. "God, I hope it's not Artemis. Amazons are already on my shit list."

"Has to be Hecate." Clint answered. "Kate, well, we're pretty sure she's not a virgin and healing is Hecate's area. The birth control pills, big box of condoms, and K-Y in the drawer say Susie isn't either. Artemis is militant about the sex thing." Clint sat the notebook down on the counter, winching as he twisted to lay it down behind him. Dean noticed.

"Alright, enough. We need to get you cleaned up and bandaged. The rest can wait." Dean tossed the empty bottles in the trash. Clint gave him a measured look and the temperature in the room went up as heat passed between them. Pushing away the memory of his hand against Clint's skin, Dean moved to where the light was brighter, facing him. He dropped his gaze to Clint's arm; the puncture wound was puckered, angry red skin surrounding it. The deepest slash on his chest, cutting across purpling bruises left by punches, was covered in a trail of dried blood. Of all the damage, the gunshot was the most surprising; the scar was fading, weeks old in look.

"Kate's work," Dean said as he examined the injury. "She's more powerful than Susie."

"Yeah, I felt it." With a light touch, Clint brushed the cuts on Dean's arm and chest before he settled his hand under Dean's chin, tilting the face for a better view. "More like electricity than healing." Already looking faint, the laceration across Dean's cheek was almost gone. Clint ran his thumb across the hint of a scar; Dean's lips parted as arousal slammed his gut. Not that the thought of Clint's mouth on him had been buried that far beneath the surface, but, standing bloody chest to bloody chest, Clint's head angled up to see his, Dean began to harden, straining against the zipper of his jeans. His fingers itched to feel Clint's skin again, to see if that pulse of fire was all Kate's doing or something else. Neither of the men said anything for a few heartbeats. Clint's fingers stayed in place; Dean clinched his hands as the urge for more grew.

"Damn it." Clint dropped his hand and shoved away from the bar. He strode towards the bathroom door. "I need a shower." With more force than he needed, he slammed into the room, door swinging back open behind him. Dean stood still, exhaling as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control the desire that rolled through him. He should let it go, ignore the need that was evident and demanding action, but the sounds of shoes hitting the floor, the slide of fabric against fabric, were followed by the patter of the shower, water hitting tiles. As he opened his eyes, the door remained ajar, inviting. He grew even harder, an almost painful yearning to feel wet skin against wet skin.

"Fuck." With an explosive curse, he stalked towards the door, kicking his boots off by the couch. The small corner of his brain that had resisted gave up, overwhelmed and beaten by hunger for release. He crossed the threshold and closed the door to the small room.

The shower door was glass, Clint clearly silhouetted under the interior light. Resting his forearms against the wall, his head was bowed under the stream of water, dripping off his chin. Dean could see the muscles bunched under Clint's shoulders, his spine running down to two indentions in the small well of his back. Water poured, over the curve of ass, down his thighs. His erection was evident, thrusting forward; Dean's mouth went dry as Clint shifted, lifting his head, face up to the spray. The heat from the water began to steam the air, condensation starting on the mirror; Clint turned and looked directly at Dean, and a spark flowed between them.

Without breaking eye contact, Dean pushed his jeans and briefs, stepping out of them as they slid to the floor, freeing himself. The smile that played on Clint's mouth as he eyed Dean drew a soft growl from Dena's lips as he opened the door and stepped inside the shower. Dropping his arms from the wall, Clint made room for Dean behind him.

"Just don't hog the damn soap," Dean said as he reached his arms around and splayed his hands on the wall, bringing his chest against Clint's back. He hissed as his erection bumped Clint's ass. With a groan, he let go of any control left, bent his head and kissed Clint's neck, parting the water with his lips. When Clint braced himself with his own hands, Dean moved his to cover them, slipping his fingers between Clint's. Trailing upward, he sucked on Clint's ear lobe; he got a tang of blood from Emily's earlier bite and, without thinking, flicked his tongue out to lick it off.

"God." Clint's voice was half-whisper, half-beg, emboldening Dean. Bending slightly, he began a rhythm, sliding his hard length between Clint's cheeks, sensitive head bumping against Clint's balls, making thigh muscles clench. The tightening almost made Dean come, and he dragged in a ragged breath, mouth still against Clint's ear. Rising and falling with each increasing thrust, Dean's chest slid across Clint's back. But it wasn't enough; Dean wanted more. With a primal sound, he pulled back and turned Clint around, driving Clint back, raising Clint's arms and latching hands around the wrists, just below the red rope burns, pinning him against the wall. For a second he could see Clint tied to that table, and, hell, that turned him on in ways he hadn't thought of. Mouth descended and plundered, an aggressive kiss that demanded Clint part his lips, giving Dean's tongue access to taste. Heads tangled, tilting and shifting for more access, breaking for breaths before returning for more. The water poured down Dean now, splitting at his shoulders to run between their bodies.

Passing Clint's wrists to his left hand, Dean freed his right. Arms stretched above his head, Clint couldn't touch Dean, and he struggled to lower his hands.

"Sorry," Dean said, "but I like you this way." Sliding his hand down Clint's chest, softly to avoid the wounds, his fingers slid around Clint's hard cock, a gentle reprise of Emily's painful grope. Stroking the tip with his thumb, Dean smiled as Clint's eyes closed. "She was right. We are pretty simple really. A few strokes, a blow job, a good fuck …"

"Dean." Clint made the name both a gasp of pleasure and a question. Fingers continuing their gentle touch, Dean watched Clint arch his back and felt him strain forward for more before he kissed him again, a different kind of kiss this time, one filled with promise, less hurried. He sucked on Clint's bottom lip, licked the teeth marks before slipping his tongue instead for a slower, languid pass. Passion, already at the peak, kept building even higher.

With a curse, Clint gain tried to pull his hands free, and this time, Dean let him as he sank down on his knees, hands finding Clint's hips as Dean took Clint into his mouth, a slow, sensual contact of lips and tongue. Setting a languid pace, Dean sucked gently, tasting the saltiness, enjoying the sounds Clint made as he involuntarily began to thrust his hips, urging Dean to go faster. With a groan, Clint's hands clasped Dean's head and pulled him upwards, bringing their mouths back together, slamming Dean's back onto the opposite wall, pinning him down. Pressing their bodies into full contact, hip to hip, Clint deepened the kiss Clint' rubbed his erection against Dean's hard cock with a steady motion, their hips moving in rhythm with each other. The sensation blew through Dean, erotic and exciting, driving him to his limit; he groaned and dropped his head, panting, increasing the speed until he felt Clint explode before he followed with a shattering climax. They rested against the wall, bodies still entwined together.

"See?" Dean asked, chest heaving. "Simple." He felt Clint's laugh in his body, still pressed together.

Clint stepped back and reached for the soap. With a casual motion, he lathered up his hands, and began washing Dean's chest, cleaning up the last of the blood.

"You used up all the hot water," Dean groused. "And it's girly shampoo. I'm gonna smell like … lilacs. Great."

"Quit whining and turn around."

"Okay, so Hera's gets Emily, promises her what she wants most, revenge, power. Susie and Kate worship Hecate, do magic, and are working against Hera. Then we have Brenda, unknown quantity. Vamps work for Hera and the other dudes are religious zealouts."

Clint watched as Dean's towel rode dangerously low on his hips. Leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, Clint enjoyed the view as Dean wandered in the kitchen.

"Brenda's made a separate deal with at least the vamps and intends to sandbag Hera because of old history." Dean rooted through the cabinets in search of food as the dryer cycled, cleaning their clothes. Dean scavenged a box of cheese crackers and jar of peanut butter from the cabinet, twisting off the lid and using the cracker as a scoop. He popped on into his mouth, tasted, then shrugged, and ate another. Watching him eat was amusing, Clint realized, as Dean stuffed a couple more crackers into his mouth. Damn fine mouth too, he remembered and half-smiled.

"What?" Dean mumbled with his mouth full. He offered the jar to Clint. "Want some?"

"No, thanks." He shook his head. "The other two attacks. D.C., it was werewolves. Rome, arachne. All monsters associated with the Greek gods. Want to bet Hera where thinks the other two parts of the moon are?"

"They don't know where their own pieces are? Someone else hid them. Made it so they can't find them." Dean shook his head, disgust evident on his face. "Damn gods. Can't they just do something simple and straight forward for once?"

"Not enough family drama and angst if you just kill someone, I guess."

Dean continued opening cabinets until he hit the ones under the bar. "Pay dirt!" Pulling out a bottle of Jack Daniels, he collected two glasses he'd spied early and filled them with ice. Passing the glasses to Clint, he juggled the crackers, jar, and bottle, carrying them back into the bedroom and depositing them on the small computer table. He poured for both of them and tossed the first glass back; the whiskey was smooth with a kick as it went down, and Dean filled the glasses up again as soon as they were empty. "A couple more of these are definitely in order."

Clint matched Dean on the second round, but sipped the third slowly, savoring the liquid warmth on his tongue. Still standing by the door, he let his mind wander away from the case, thinking instead of the man in front of him, the strong hand rattling the ice in his glass, silver ring clicking on the bottle as he topped off. Watched him rest the glass on his lip, tip it up, whiskey sliding over the rim, his tongue slipping along the glass to catch any drops. If he kissed him now, Dean would taste like the drink, and peanuts, and … Clint let himself imagine the feel of Dean, and he stirred again, heat beginning to build.

Dean closed the jar and box, dropping into the desk chair; with legs spread apart, the towel pulled, leaving his left leg exposed almost all the way up to the hip. Casually reaching for the bottle, he filled his glass, the sound of the dryer tumbling coming from the bathroom; if Clint didn't know better, he'd think Dean was deliberately baiting him into acting. Settling his glass on the dresser, Clint wondered at himself. Usually he preferred action to thinking, so why was he hesitating? Dean had clearly taken the initiative earlier in the shower.

Decided, Clint closed the distance between them and leaned down, pausing before he brushed his lips across Dean's. The taste of whiskey passed between them, smooth and deep, intoxicating. The touch deepened, easy and slow, caress of sensitive skin, a mingle of whiskey-laced breaths. Clint explored the line of Dean's mouth, kissing the corners, and grazing the tip of his tongue along the bottom. With a final sweep, he pulled back and tossed his towel away, reaching for Dean's, intentionally allowing his fingers to drag along the inner thigh and brush against Dean's crotch before he yanked it off. With a quick lift of Dean's hips, the towel was free.

"I've decided towels are evil," Clint said with a laugh, as he gathered them up and went to throw them in the bathroom. Returning, he threw the box of condoms on the bedside table; Dean's eyes widened when he saw them, the implication clear. With a steady gaze, he looked back at Clint, tongue nervously darting out to lick his lips. Straddling the chair, Clint sat down on Dean's legs, bringing their bodies into contact. "I believe you said something about a good fuck," he murmured, easing his hands into Dean's hair, holding his face steady and tilting it up slightly before kissing him again. This kiss was rougher, filled with more need, fueled by the dangers of the night and the thought of blood and tied hands. A sense of survival, the menace of the job combined with a desire to feel alive, to be with someone else who knew and understood. Tongues tangled as Clint ran his thumb along Dean's chin, feeling the day-old stubble, skimmed across the cheek bone, both stirring and hardening together. Dean's hands slipped around Clint's waist, grazing up and back down, leaving a trail of heat behind his fingertips; he let his thumbs linger at the base of the spine, spreading his fingers as he circled Clint's ass, squeezing and lifting. Groaning, Clint lifted his mouth away and drew his hands down to Dean's chest, circling each nipple with a thumb, watching as Dean's head fell back, eyes closed with pleasure, breaths coming faster.

Pushing back, Clint slid off, dropping between Dean's knees, letting his hands drag down Dean's chest and onto his thighs. Angling forward, he brought his lips to Dean's chest, mouth tasting the skin, tongue tracing the sensitive nipples, nipping with his teeth to make Dean growl and grab Clint's hands, covering them with his own. Working downward, Clint licked and tasted, occasionally adding a light bite to make Dean jump and moan; he liked the way the skin smelled, lilac and soap, a whiff of whiskey and sweat. Parting Dean's legs further, he brought his mouth down and over Dean's length, slipping his lips along the shaft, lightly at first, then with increasing pressure; he paused to trace the curve of the head with his tongue and suck the drop at the top. Dean's hands clasped around the nape of Clint's neck, burying his fingers in hair; panting, Dean let his hands ride the motion of Clint's head as his mouth nursed Dean.

When Clint's mouth left, leaving him hanging, Dean sucked in a breath and asked, "Clint?" Reaching into the table drawer, Clint removed the tube of lotion and then took out a foil packet. He held it up, letting Dean make the decision. "Tingling? What the hell is that?" Dean said as he took the bottle, popped it open then looked at the packet. "Ribbed for her pleasure?" Clint shrugged and laughed as Dean ripped it open with sure hands. "Susie has interesting tastes."

Dean's hands shook as he opened the tube and smeared his hand with the cold gel, using the other to drag Clint's mouth back to his. His cock aching, side by side with Clint's, pressed against their bellies, Dean tilted back in the chair, slipping his finger down Clint's ass, circling the tight hole and easing inside. Damn, but Clint was tight and hot, and his tongue darted into Dean's mouth, pushing in to Dean just as Dean was pushing into him. Hands on either side of Dean's head, Clint's kiss grew more demanding, his hips rising as Dean slid out and back in. As he felt Clint relax, Dean added a second finger and Clint growled in response.

"Damn, Dean, god that feels good," he murmured as Dean pushed harder with each move.

"I can't, not much longer," Dean ground out, sweat beading on his forehead as he held his climax in check. Pulling his fingers out of Clint, Dean fumbled for the packet.

"Then fuck me now." Clint reached the condom first, slipping it over Dean's cock and rolling it down.

"Jesus," Dean mumbled as Clint's fingers tickled him before adding a layer of lubricant. Playfully, Clint rubbed his hands across Dean's chest, blowing lightly at the glistening trail. "Tingling, yet?" he asked when Dean's eyes closed; he dropped a light kiss on his parted lips. Straddling Dean, Clint positioned himself, and Dean put his hands on Clint's hips. Using a hand as a guide, Clint lowered himself slowly, easing down, inch by inch. With Dean slowly stretching and filling him, Clint drew in a sharp breath, hands digging into Dean's chest as muscles in his thighs began to shake. Rising again, he began a rhythm, a little further and deeper each time; Dean's hands griped Clint's ass, urging him faster, lifting with each thrust. Brushing against Dean's stomach, Clint's erection ached for release; Dean's hand reached for Clint, encircling his length, moving smoothly up and down between them. With each plunge, Clint lost more control, heat swamping his body, sweat breaking out as bodies came together then parted again. Driven, Clint shifted and Dean brushed against the spot, sensation shattering through him; he moved his hand to clasp Dean's, urging him faster, their fingers entwined around his length as he climaxed. With a few more thrusts, Dean joined him with a raw cry as he came.

Sagging, Clint dropped his forehead against Dean's; both men struggled to breathe in the aftermath. Brushing lips, Clint kissed Dean gently; sweat began to cool. He didn't want to separate, but Clint finally did, standing up and heading to clean up. Clint finally stretched on the bed, linking his hands behind his head; Dean climbed in next to him a few minutes later, sprawling on his stomach.

"Remind me to take the garbage out in the morning," he mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. Nodding, Clint rolled on his side next to Dean and let himself fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean woke from his dream filled with dark forests, missing friends, and black demon eyes. He'd been chasing after shadows that slipped further away the closer he got, half-hidden faces, familiar and unknown. Answers hovered just out of his consciousness, dropping back into the depths of sleep as he surfaced. He was lying on his stomach, one arm tossed across Clint's chest, fingertips resting on the warm skin, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths. Clint's arm snaked under him, and he opened his eyes to the silhouette of Clint's face, relaxed. Hip to hip, his leg bent across Clint's, feet tangled together. The part of him that was wide-awake and demanding attention rested snug against Clint's thigh, erect and ready.

Easing away, Dean felt Clint stir as Dean's thigh rubbed against inner thigh; he stilled, and Clint settled back into sleep. The quiet gave Dean a chance to look his fill and let his hand wander. So many scars, he thought as he touched. New ones from last night, almost healed through magic. Old ones from who knows how long ago; trailing down to the smattering of hair around Clint's belly button, he lightly spread his hand over yesterday's scar, remember the pulse between them. He lifted up onto his hands and knees; his bent thigh fit snugly between Clint's legs, rubbing gently, causing Clint to stir. Starting at the bend of shoulder to arm, Dean explored with his mouth, kissing, breath blowing across the skin, tongue darting out to taste. Following no discernible path, he covered Clint's chest, taking his time to learn each inch, stopping to smile as Clint twitched his way awake with small moans. Working lower, Dean watched Clint's half-focused eyes as he came awake; the lust there jolted through Dean, and he groaned into Clint's skin as his own erection rubbed against Clint's thigh. Moving his knee, he brought his mouth to inner thigh, sucked in some skin and bit lightly; Clint jumped, spreading his legs at the same time as he cursed, giving Dean better access. Nibbling and kissing, Dean moved closer to his goal, paying attention to each inch of skin.

"Damnit, Dean," Clint gasped when Dean came close then moved away. Chuckling, Dean's lips brushed, then pulled away before his used his tongue, tracing up and down the shaft, then around the head, ending with a quick pull. With a moan, Clint pushed his hips up, begging for more; Dean obliged, opening his mouth and taking Clint inside, gentle at first, then harder. Hands gripping the quilt, Clint's eyes closed as Dean increased pressure and speed, bringing Clint nearer the edge. With a growl, Clint came; Dean took all the saltiness, finishing Clint off, easing up and back on his heels.

"Well, good morning to you too," Clint mumbled, but he gave a sexy smile, stretching his arms above his head with a contented sigh.

Dean bent and gave him a kiss that was languid and slow, and then reached across to the table, opening the drawer and fumbling around until he pulled out a foil packet. He sat back up, enjoying the view. "Up for another round?"

"Give me a minute and I'll shoot circles around you yet." Clint laughed as he pushed up to his elbows, eyes drifting to Dean's very evident erection. He sat up, pulling Dean's face to his for a kiss; Dean started to ease Clint back onto the bed, but, with a shake of his head and a grin, Clint resisted, keeping them both upright. Running his hands down Dean's chest, onto his thighs, he pushed them apart. Switching positions, Clint lay down on his back, head between Dean's legs, taking the full hard length into his mouth in one smooth move; the sensation rocked Dean and he arched his back as he moaned. Sliding his hands up Dean's thighs to cup his ass, Clint lifted Dean, taking him even deeper into his throat.

"God," Dean groaned as Clint's tongue spiraled out and then back, a sensual touch that drove all thought from his mind except the waves of pleasure of each slow slide. "Yes, god, yes." Dean's hips moved, faster as Clint pulled and sucked, slipping a hand to squeeze Dean's balls. With a final thrust forward, Dean gave a husky cry and came, throwing his head back, his climax rippling through him, Clint swallowing all of him. Panting, Dean rode the crest, leaning down to slid his hands down Clint's chest, parting his legs to stroke his already stirring cock, thumb running up and down the sensitive vein.

Clint rolled out from under Dean and moved, coming around behind him. After a moment, hands roved up Dean's back, to his shoulders, pushing him forward onto his hands and knees. Dean breathed, felt a thrill at the thought of Clint inside him, and started hardening again. With a lubricated hand, Clint eased Dean's legs open, running a finger down and around his rim, slipping inside, slick and slow. Dean reeled from the feeling as Clint slid back out and in again; with his other hand, Clint circled Dean, coaxing him on to hardness, over-riding his tension until Dean was ready for more. Clint entered him, smoothly, slowly, one breath at a time. The invasion was intimate and erotic, filling him only to retreat, again and again. "Breathe," Clint ground out between clinched teeth, holding himself in check; exhaling, Dean felt his body relax and open, tightness replaced by erotic fullness. Dean writhed, trying to move faster, but Clint kept it slow, going deep each time, easing back out, driving Dean crazy with need.

"Clint." He turned the name into a request, begging for more. Head hanging down, he struggled to remember to take in air, the feeling of Clint inside him swamping his senses.

"Say it," Clint asked as he sheathed himself fully, pausing, holding their bodies together before pulling back out. Dean tried to speak, but he lost his voice as Clint pushed back in; when he slid out again, Dean made a noise, low in his throat.

"Damnit," he gasped. "Stop teasing. Do it."

Clint leaned forward, shifting inside him, bringing his lips to Dean's ear. "Do what?"

"Fuck. Me." Dean growled. Clint's laugh carried through him, and Dean grew even more desperate for release.

"Yes, sir," Clint murmured. He gripped Dean tight, pulled out and thrust back in; dropping to his elbows, Dean gave in to the sensual ride, letting the rough strokes take him. Clint's breath grew ragged as bodies came together, over and over. In a rush, Clint's hand stroked Dean's shaft, each pull mirroring the rhythm of their bodies pounding together, until Dean grimaced and shouted as he came again. With a final thrust, Clint followed, collapsing, taking Dean down to the bed, skin hot and sweaty. They lay, bodies entwined, breathing together.

A cell phone buzzed on the table; Clint was closest. After the third vibration, he finally rolled over and reached for it, passing it to Dean. Swinging off the bed, Clint headed down the short hallway as Dean answered.

"Yeah? When? Okay. I don't know, let me ask." He lifted up on his elbow and shouted. "Clint? Bacon or sausage?"

"Ummm …. Both?" Clint stuck his head out of the bathroom door and gave Dean a wink.

"One of both. No, for each of us." Dean gave up and sat up. "Just bring a lot. We're hungry." He tossed the phone back on the table. "Sam's on his way. 20 minutes out." Dean caught his clean jeans as Clint tossed them; in a drawer, he found University of Pittsburgh t-shirt that sort of fit even if it smelled like the sachet tucked beside it.

"Dean?" Clint called from the living room a few minutes later. "We have company."

She sat on one of the stools, long tanned legs crossed, red fuck-me pumps swinging. Her business suit was grey pin-stripes, tailored to fit every one of her womanly curves, buttons of her white shirt pulling as she shifted to look as Dean came into the room, skirt just shy of obscenely short. Stormy grey eyes focused intently, assessing instantly; a sultry smile emerged as she sized up both men. She twirled an ebony strand of hair around her perfectly manicured finger as Dean entered, pointing his gun her direction.

"Oh. My. Goodness." She exclaimed, voice rich with a European accent. "I had no idea this would be so enjoyable. I don't imagine you boys would be interested in some Mexican food and margaritas later? There's this lovely little cantina in Cabo just minutes from my villa. We'll clear all this right up and head on down. The beach is private, and we can save the good tequila for sunset." She eyed them both; Dean felt himself flush as her eyes lingered on his crotch.

"Lady, who are you, and how the hell did you get in here?" Dean demanded.

"Give it a minute, dear, you'll get it." She sat back, elbows on the bar.

"Hera." Clint said. She nodded regally, pleased to be recognized.

"Guilty as charged, well, at least of being me. The rest? I hate to break it to you, but you're way off base there." She reached for an open can of Diet Coke beside her and took a drink. "Look, boys, if I wanted to find my bowl, I would. You think I'd use someone like Emily Clutter?" She laughed. "No, I left my fatal attraction phase a couple centuries ago. Amazing what a top-notch divorce lawyer and good therapy can do for a girl's self-esteem." She slid off the stool, circling both of them in the small living room. "I could ask Athena to do research, send that twit Hercules to batter down doors, get Hermes to zip on in and get it. Why in Olympus' name would I use vampires or werewolves or those terrible arachne? I hate spiders." She even shuddered gracefully.

"We're supposed to believe that?" Dean watched carefully, gun at ready. No matter how beautiful, gods were trouble, no matter what.

She patted Clint on the chest, lightly touching the wound on his arm. "Problem is, you're asking the wrong questions. This is not about the talismans and whose they are; I can assure you that the three of us are more interested in getting back what is ours, not in grabbing power for ourselves. Heavens, but being in charge is tiring, and there's no time for a long weekend away with new friends." As she spoke, she moved to face Dean. "Good lord, you both are better than sex on a stick, you know that? I have a weak spot for handsome men with guns … or bows." Never laying a hand on him, Hera unnerved him just by looking with eyes that seemed to see everything about him. He suddenly knew how a fly felt when the web began to vibrate.

Clint cleared his throat to get her attention. "Who else would want the talismans, if not the original owners?"

"Now there's a good question! If I knew that, I'd just smite them and be done with it. Those pins are a very special type of item, gifts given to good followers, keyed to a specific goal. My bowl promotes marital harmony; Abigail Adams used it as her pin bowl and look what that led to." Her smile was genuine and pleased at that thought. "Artie's bow gives women strength. Hecate's pin, well, it's about finding those who are lost and helping them find home. We kept an eye on them over the centuries as they passed through humans' hands; then, just recently, they fell out of our sight."

"Couldn't be that you pissed off someone, and they took away your toys?" Dean asked.

With a shake of her head, she gave a little laugh. "Oh, yes, I can see what she sees in you." She paused, head tilted slightly as if listening. "Time to run. I'm sure you'll figure it out. I'll be in touch." With a parting wink at Dean, she simply disappeared, leaving only the cooling can of pop. Lowering the gun, Dean checked around the room to ensure she was gone.

"So, she was here the whole time?" Dean asked Clint, an image of their lovemaking in his head.

"She wasn't here when I first came out of the bathroom."

"Yeah, that would be awkward," Dean muttered.

"The million dollar question is, what the hell did she mean when she said "I can see what she sees in you?"

Clint caught Sam watching Dean when he thought he wasn't looking; true, Dean was in a very good mood, despite their morning visit from Hera, joking and laughing as he drove. The fun part was when Dean did the same to his brother, a quick glance to check on him when Dean thought Sam wouldn't notice. Sam was just as obviously more content and relaxed; sex, it seemed, was an effective release of stress for both men. And, if he admitted it, Clint felt pretty damn good too. He stopped himself from staring at Dean's lips and was content to remember the feel of him instead. That wasn't exactly a smart decision either as he stirred, mind jumping to tangled hands against his chest. The back seat of the Impala was large and roomy enough ….

"Clint," Dean repeated. "Where are we meeting him again?" Clint jerked his mind away from pondering how the seat leather would feel on bare skin to the conversation in the front.

"Ah, it's called Shorty's. On Chestnut street. Turn left up here off of Main." Dean's smirk in the rearview mirror told him Dean was pretty sure he knew what the daydream had been about. Late afternoon traffic was light, and Dean found a parking spot just down from the tiny diner in front of a dance studio where a group of little girls too young for their shorts and belly-barring tees jumped around to a pop tune. In the window of Shorty's, an older man with a white apron manned a griddle filled with sizzling, sliced open hot dogs; old red pleather stools lined the counter, mostly filled with customers, and six small round tables ran along the opposite wall. Martin Cosgrove was in the one in the corner, his back against a wall, and he nodded when they entered.

"If you haven't eaten, Shorty's has the best dogs in the county," he said as he picked up a chili-laden one from his plate. Dean looked longingly as the deputy took a bite. "Chili's good, but some people prefer the gravy on the side."

"Gravy, Sam." Dean practically snagged the waitress as she came near the table. "I want two of those with everything. And gravy."

"That sounds good to me," Clint agreed, not so much hungry as wanting to watch Dean enjoy his food.

Sam shook his head. "None for me thanks, just a cup of coffee." He waited until the waitress had left before asking the deputy questions. "You feeling okay?"

"Bruised ribs mostly. Hurts like hell, but I'm alive. More than I can say for the others." He seemed sullen and withdrawn, Clint thought, upset about the situation. The man carried the deaths with him, the injustice weighing on his shoulders. "Then more last night, what with the vandalism and dead bodies. Got five unidentified in two cars in an industrial park plus Matt Thomas, a college kid from up at Pitt. Worked over at the Little Lake Theatre, one of the places torn apart. Don't suppose you know anything about that?"

"Ask Emily Clutter and Brenda French. They're at the heart of all this," Dean replied. He gave the deputy the details they'd agreed upon, just enough to get his help.

"Emily, yeah I can believe that. Her husband, Andy, played on my softball team. She's a piece of work. But Brenda?" Cosgrow shook his head.

"Sorry to break the news, but Brenda isn't really herself right now," Clint said. The waitress arrived with their orders, hot from the grill, loaded with onions, relish, mustard, chili, and drizzled with gravy. Dean made a noise in his throat as he picked one up, fillings oozing over his fingers. Clint remembered Dean making the same noise this morning and he quickly picked up his drink, hiding his face behind the cup.

"This, gentlemen, is not a hot dog, but a work of art." Dean took a big bite, eyes drifting closed in pleasure, and actually moaned out loud. "God, that's a good dog." Food, music, and sex, Clint thought. Dean had been right about how simple it was to make him happy. Maybe all three together at the same time in the car. Damn, he was doing to himself again. Shifting in his seat, he watched Dean take another bite, scrunch up the bun to fit it in his mouth, chili and gravy running over the bread. When Dean began to lick his fingers, Clint turned his eyes down to his own plate as Dean sucked some gravy off his thumb, his cock starting to strain against the fabric of his pants.

"What?" Dean glanced up at everyone. "It's good." He let his eyes linger on Clint, lips quirking upward then took another bite, licking the mustard from the corners of his mouth. Damn, if he didn't know what he was doing, Clint thought. Well, two could play that game.

"Yeah, people react that way to their first Shorty's dog," Cosgrow laughed.

The table was hardly big enough, the chairs made for smaller people than the four men squeezed in around the circle. Sam had taken one of the outside chairs, pushed back far enough for his legs to fit, barely able to reach for the menu. Clint sat against the wall with Dean tucked into the corner, between him and the deputy; adjusting position, he pushed against Dean's knee, rubbing leg over leg. Picking up one of his own hot dogs, Clint took a bite. Then stopped. And looked at the food. Good didn't begin to describe the greasy masterpiece of diner food. His eyes closed and he enjoyed it, the taste of crisp sweet onions, spicy chili, crusty grilled meat, tangy mustard and the feel of Dean's leg, moving back and forth, generating a different kind of heat. Taking his time, he swiped his mouth clean with his thumb, running it along the edge of his lips then popped it in his mouth to suck off the excess, keeping Dean in the edge of his vision.

"I can't exactly put an A.P.B. out on the two women without some sort of proof. No one will believe that they're associated with the killers. Party line at the station is that it's a drug war. We're on a North-South pipeline here, and we've had problems in the past. The operating theory is that they were using the LeMoyne House after hours as storage and two rival gangs are fighting over territory."

"Always easy to go with drugs or terrorists," Sam agreed. "But what we need is to find information about the LeMoyne family. A family heirloom maybe be at the heart of all this."

Dean took his time eating, never directly looking at Clint, dragging in the last of the gravy with the tip of his tongue. To retaliate, Clint dropped a napkin into his lap, unfolding it, using the moment to cop a quick feel, making Dean cough into his hand to cover his reaction. Then Clint casually ate another big bite.

"You could try Mildred Anderson. Her family claims to have been one of the first settlers, but mostly she's just a nosey old woman who knows everything about everyone in town. But be careful, she'll talk your ear off." He took out a pen, wrote on a napkin, and passed it to Sam. "I'll ask around about the women, let you know what I hear. We've got everyone working the drug angle, so I can put them in the missing lists." Sam shifted his chair to let him out as he thanked him.

"Okay, guess we talk to Mildred," Sam said.

Dean pointed to his plate. "Hot dogs first, then we talk." He winked at Clint then shoved half of the second hot dog in his mouth, bumping his elbow into Clint's arm. "You know, lefties shouldn't be on the right," he said. "Next time, I'll put you in the corner." Dean had waited until Clint's mouth was full for his zinger, and Clint managed not to choke at the image that brought to mind, taking a swig of coke to help cover his reaction.

"You're in a good mood today," Sam said with a bemused smile. He was watching the two of them closely as the restaurant slowly cleared out. "Any particular reason for that?"

"I'm alive, psycho-bitch isn't anywhere around, and I've found hot dog nirvana. All that's lacking is a good beer," Dean declared.

"You forgot sex. Really good, earth-shattering sex." Clint added. "Good beer, good food, and good sex. That would put anyone in positive frame of mind." He gave Dean his best resting face, just a single arched eyebrow before sitting back in his chair, pressing his thigh to Dean's and letting a smile creep across his face.

"We'd have to ask Sam about that, now wouldn't we?" Dean turned his playful gaze on his brother. "Since he's the one getting some right now."

"Enough." Sam sighed. "I'll pay the check if you two are about done playing around." He stood up to take the handwritten bill to the checkout register by the door.

"I'm certainly not done," Clint said to Dean, a smoldering look in his eyes. "Are you?"

"Hell, no," Dean replied.

"They'll be watching for us," Clint warned from the back seat, "once night falls. I would be."

Mildred Anderson had been a delightful woman, full of gossipy stories and town history, even if most of it was more legend than truth. She'd preened under their attention, offered them whiskey, and told them a number of interesting tidbits about the LeMoynes and Emily Clutter, among others. Most important was the story about Dr. LeMoyne's youngest daughter, Madeline; many of the town's people thought she was a witch, and the facts they'd uncovered on the internet gave credence to the tale.

"So, listen to this. Madeline almost dies when she's 6," Sam said, reading from the computer screen balanced on his lap. They were parked behind a café in a strip mall, leeching off the free wi-fi, keeping low on the radar screen. "Declared legally dead by another doctor. Dad shows up and, poof, Madeline is alive again. Stories started after that, how her father called her soul back, made some sort of devil with the devil … which is plausible, of course …"

Dean shuffled though the stack of information, glad they'd left it in the car rather than take it in the motel room. "Madeline was the one who left the house to the Historical Society. Let's see, house and her garden and another lot to the city that's now a parking lot."

"Mildred said people came to her for spells and potions," Clint said. "Guess she did well in potions class at Hogwarts."

"Dude, Harry Potter? Seriously?" Dean poked back. "Don't tell me you're like Sam and a closet geek." Sam grimaced at his brother's remark.

"Hey, the movies weren't half-bad, but the books were better." Clint offered.

"Yeah, well the little girl who played Hermoine grew up to be pretty damn hot." Dean stopped flipping through the pages as a thought hit him. "Hey, what did Hera say the cauldron does? Something about bringing lost things home?"

Clint caught the thread immediately. "Yeah, that it helps find people and bring them home. Like the story of Persephone. Originally, Hecate wasn't an evil goddess; she was pretty powerful. According to Homer, she helped Demeter find Persephone when she was kidnapped and taken to the underworld. After that, she was Persephone's companion on her yearly journey down and back." He tapped the screen of his notebook. "Wait, I think I saw something here … yes … worshippers put her statues in doorways of their homes and entrances to cities to protect from restless spirits of the dead … and she's associated with three way crossroads. . ."

"Damn, that's it," Dean cursed. "He brought his daughter back from the dead. That's what the pin does. Wonder what the price was?"

"Price?" Clint asked. Dean's face was serious, anger causing him to clench his jaw. He didn't like this subject.

"Crossroad demons always bargain. Standard deal is ten years before they drag you to hell. Usually." Darkness passed behind Dean's eyes, a stain that Clint understood all too well.

"Really?" Clint asked, treading carefully into what was obviously shaky territory. "People make deals like that?" Dean gave him a bleak look.

"Yeah, they do."

An idea was bubbling in his head, something at the edge of his memory. Clint tried to grab it, pull it into his consciousness but it eluded him. Resting his arm on the seat, he leaned forward, hand near Dean's shoulder. His fingers ached to touch Dean's face, to smooth away the hardness that had shut down his good mood, and to figure out what had caused the change.

"Demons probably stole the idea from Hecate," Sam said. "Sounds like something they'd do. Anyway, according to her obituary in the Post-Gazette, Madeline lived to the ripe old age of 100 before she died in the upstairs bedroom of the house … same one she 'died' in when she was young. There were no other living relatives. The writer specifically mentions she was known for her garden and medicinal herbs. Good basis for a witch legend, if you ask me."

"So this pin can bring back the dead …." Clint began and then it clicked. "Damn. French said it when he was coming up the stairs. Dead is dead. The argument on the phone with the unknown person."

"And the pin can change that," Sam agreed. "We need to know if any of the major players have lost someone recently. Grief is a powerful motivator." He cut a glance at his brother, but Dean resolutely kept his eyes on the papers in front of him. "Can you find that out?" He directed the question to Clint who was already checking his intel.

"Give me a minute, I'll check."

"There's a hardware store just a couple doors down. I need a few things for the summoning spell. I'll be right back." Sam exited, shutting the door behind him as he headed around the corner of the building. Intent on his screen, Clint scrolled through the information, finding nothing.

"No recent deaths for any of them," he reported, looking up to see that Dean had collapsed in the seat, head back, eyes closed. A frown marked his face, brow furrowed; Clint ran his thumb across Dean's forehead, and Dean sighed. Dropping his notebook on the seat, he put both hands on Dean's head, fingers on the two points above the eyes, applying pressure. After a few seconds, he lifted Dean's head up and pushed his thumbs at the base of his skull, where the neck muscles connect, hands splayed on the sides. "Drop your chin." Dean did, and Clint lifted up Dean's head up with this hands. "Now lift back up." Dean's groan as he complied told Clint everything he needed to know. "Now lay your head back." Clint could feel the muscles stretching out, releasing, as Dean's head fell back again.

"So, how many years did you get?" He managed to ask calmly. Dean's whole body tensed, jaw locking, tension evident as he clenched his teeth. Making lazy circles with his fingers, Clint smoothed the creases away, leaned over and dropped a light kiss on the tight lips.

Exhaling first, Dean kept his eyes closed as he answered. "Bitch would only give me one." He tightened his hands into fists on his thighs. "But Sam was worth it."

"Of course he was," Clint agreed wholeheartedly, knowing that there were people he'd make the same deal for in a heartbeat. "How did you get out of it? I hear demons are worse than lawyers … or maybe that lawyers are all demons." Dean didn't even smile.

"I didn't."

Clint's hands stilled for a moment, then continued their strokes. He let the silence draw out, waiting for Dean to finish the story.

"They dragged me down to Hell." Clint could feel the tension in Dean's shoulders, Dean fairly vibrating with the memory. Giving the hunter time, Clint waited before he spoke.

"I tried to save my brother. Twice. Once he died trying to do the right thing. The last time, I killed him." Dean's eyes opened at Clint's statement, and Clint could see the depth of the pain within them, memories so terrible even speaking them aloud gave them power again, brought them vividly back.

"I'm sorry."

Taking Dean's chin in his hand, Clint tilted the handsome face until he could kiss Dean's lips lazily, no hint of hurry, a slow touch that covered every inch of their surface, corner to corner. He felt Dean's jaw relax under his caress, fingertips brushing along the angle of the cheekbones, through the hair, down to nape of the neck. Pushing back the restlessness that demanded he move faster, Clint reveled in Dean's lips, wetting them with his tongue, gently urging them apart with smooth strokes, slipping inside to graze across Dean's tongue, then back out to patiently kiss again. He stopped for a heartbeat, fingers continuing down Dean's chest, then kissed him, kissed each square of already tingling skin, doing it all again.

"Dude, Sam will be right back," Dean murmured against Clint's mouth, but he didn't move away, leaning into the kiss instead as Clint's hand found his fist. Calloused fingers untangled Dean's clenched ones, flattening hand against thigh; stroking the skin, Clint pulled the hand up towards him, twining their fingers together.

"Ah, man, don't want to introduce me to your family?" Clint's laugh tickled, the whispered breath sending shivers of arousal though Dean. Raising Dean's hand to his mouth, Clint kissed the knuckles, spinning the silver ring with his tongue, opening the hand to kiss the palm. Dean's eyes darkened with pleasure and he muttered a curse under his breath as Clint sucked a finger into his mouth, applying pressure then scraping his teeth along the skin as the pulled the finger back out. "You could text him a long list of things to get and join me in the back seat."

A predatory gleam entered Dean's eyes at the challenge. "Wouldn't be the first time that seat's seen action." Mouths came back together in a tangle of tongues, exploring, teasing back and forth, a give and take of pleasure. The heat plummeted into his crotch, and Clint battled to keep a bridle on himself.

A car passed behind them with a rumble of bass from the speakers that shook the windows; Clint broke the connection, a small moan escaping, leaving Dean breathing heavily. He sat back in the seat, throbbing erection straining for more, and tried to pull himself back to the matter at hand. One part of his mind demanded he get back to the case, but the other was already calculating how to drag Dean over the seat, get rid of clothes, and sink himself deep inside with one good thrust. Instead, he breathed steadily, an old concentration trick he'd learned in the circus, focusing only on the feel of the air coming in and going out until he had himself back under control. Besides, they'd left the condoms and gel at the apartment.

"Feel better?" Clint asked.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, sitting back up and turning around. Then comprehension dawned on his face; Clint's mouth lifted on one side, a small smile.

"What was that with the hands on the neck maneuver?" Dean swiveled his head from side to side, almost humming to himself as he did.

"Learned it from a friend. Some Thai massage secret headache trick. Drains the stress out of the muscles every time."

"Yeah, well, the muscles are de-stressed, but now I've got other problems." Dean adjusted himself with his hand, eyes locked on Clint's, making aroused sounds in his throat. Clint shook his head and clamped down on his own reaction.

"Fuck, Dean, stop that …"

The door opened and Sam bent his body onto the seat, dropping a bag on the floor. In the seconds it took for Sam to slam the door shut, Clint scooped up the notebook and held it over his lap, hiding the state of his arousal. Dean had a harder time of it, twitching his shirt folds in place and angling away from his brother; the wince he gave in the mirror caused Clint to smother a laugh. Sam either didn't notice or chose to ignore them.

"You get everything?" Dean asked gruffly, clearing his throat.

Sam nodded. "Any luck on the recently dead front?"

"Nothing. Emily, Brenda, Susie, or Kate. Hell, I even checked Professor French. No one has died in their families in the last two years. Could be a close friend, but there's no news stories or other info about anything happening around them."

"Guess we have to summon a ghost then and hope he shows." Dean started the engine and drove away from the building.

"Never summoned a ghost before." Clint said, winking at Dean. "First time for everything, I guess."


	8. Chapter 8

The metal box rolled across the floorboard, banging into Sam's foot as the car took a turn at too high a speed. The tires squealed and Clint cursed as he hung on, drawing back in the open window; Sam kicked the box back to the other side. The whine of bullets zinged around them as the car behind took the turn on two wheels, but kept coming.

"Damn it, hold straight so I can get a shot," Clint yelled over the sound of the wind rushing in the open windows.

"Yeah, then they can get one too." Dean swerved around a slower car. Throwing the Impala into a skid, he took a hard left on a red light, careening onto a bigger road, narrowly avoiding a pick-up.

When they'd made it to LeMoyne House, or what was left of it, the two ghosts had appeared before they even started the spell, anxious to point to a small wall in the side garden. The practically danced over the spot, hovering as Sam dug up an old metal strongbox. But Clint had been right too, and they'd been jumped by Emily's men; they wouldn't have made it back to the car if Clint hadn't taken a position on the nearby roof, taking out the first wave so they had space to make a run for it.

"We can't out run them on these streets," Clint prepared to push himself back out the window. "Find me something to bring down on them." He balanced on the door frame, arrow ready.

Dean hung a right, turning back into downtown, an idea forming. Blowing off the lights, he ploughed through the construction zone, bottoming out a couple times with a grimace. "Pedestrian walkway coming up. Concrete, I think. Can you take it?"

"I can hit anything," Clint came back, distant, from outside. The man had confidence, Dean would give him that. He went as fast as he could, weaving in and out around cars, cutting a corner by driving over the sidewalk. The bridge was low with stairs on either side, crossing from dorms to the campus center. A flash of arrow, then they were under, barreling down the road, lights catching startled faces of those on the sidewalk. The bridge shattered in a blast of light, crashing down on roof of the SUV; spinning out of control, the car rammed into the concrete staircase.

"Nice shooting, Tex," Dean crowed when Clint came back into the car. Taking three turns in quick succession, Dean slowed down.

"Katie? What? Slow down," Sam answered his phone on the first ring. "Where? Okay, we'll be there. Stay there. Don't touch anything."

"What?" Dean asked.

"We have to get to Emily Clutter's house. She's been murdered."

Dean parked the Impala beside the detached garage to hide, making the tight turn from the narrow alleyway. The Victorian was the biggest house on the block, red shingles and cream gingerbread trim. The back door opened before they got up the steps onto the porch, lights off both outside and in the kitchen. Susie stepped back as they entered, face tear-streaked and eyes puffy from crying.

"We all need to watch ourselves," Clint said. "Don't touch anything. This is a crime scene. The cops will be here eventually. No need to leave fingerprints as evidence."

"She's up here," Kate said from the bottom of the stairs. "In her bedroom. It's …. it's …." She trailed off, simply standing, staring at them. Sam crossed the room and took her in his arms, comforting her. Dean and Clint slipped by them and took the stairs two-at-a- time to the top. The smell told them which room; even from the hallway, death gave an unpleasant warning.

Her body was spread out on the bed, hands and feet tied to the ornate wooden posts, stomach laid open in long strips, deep wounds that fileted her skin. A silver knife was buried in her neck, hilt up; glassy eyes stared upwards, make-up smeared.

"God, that's a terrible way to go," Dean murmured as he stepped into the room, careful to avoid the blood trail that ran out into the hallway.

"Dean." Clint stopped on the far side of the bed. On the floor was an elaborate symbol, coffins and a cross, with small bowls placed around fat black candles. Dean knelt down as Clint took pictures with his phone, lifting a small portion of the grainy substance used to draw the symbol to his nose, then to taste.

"Cornmeal." He reached for one of the bowls, but Clint stopped him, grabbing his hand. "Dude, I'm not going to leave a trace. I've been doing this for a while, you know."

"No use adding another murder charge on your record," Clint said as he picked up first one then the other bowl with his gloved hand and sniffed. "Coffee? And cigar ashes?" Intent on the pattern, Clint missed Dean's reaction. Dean stared, momentarily taken back by the casual statement. Damn. It made sense that a government agent would have access to his record, but it pissed him off that Clint knew, almost certainly had his file on that frickin' notebook he cared around. Had known from the beginning, had probably been watching them from the get-go.

"Guys, you should see this." Sam paused in the doorway. "Is that a ritual altar?"

"Made of cornmeal with coffee and cigar ashes." Clint stepped back to let Sam see. "The murder seems specific to her; the killer knew her proclivities for knifework." He walked around the bed for a better view of the knife. "I think this is the same one she used earlier. Dean?"

Dean gave a curt nod, standing up and moving back. "It's Hoodoo." Dean said through gritted teeth, holding his temper in check. "That's a loa summoning. We'll have to check which one, but someone was calling up a hoodoo god."

"Great, now hoodoo. This case gets better and better," Sam said. "I found her office space, or should I say her shrine." He waved a small tablet PC in his hand.

"I'll check out the rest of the house." Dean stalked off down the hallway, not caring that his anger left the other two men confused. Each room he inspected only made him hotter, ready for a fight; he almost hoped someone would jump him from behind a door, take a swing, anything to release the pent-up rage he was feeling, but the whole place was empty. Besides Emily's office, with maps pinned to the wall and carefully labeled files that laid out her search, the basement held an altar to Hera, complete with statue, peacock feathers, and a bowl of overly ripe pomegranates. Emily had lived well, updated decor and designer clothes in her closet, set of sharp filet knives in her dresser drawer. Finally done, he stormed back into the kitchen where Susie and Kate sat on stools at the large island. Clint eyed him warily as he entered, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. Sam stood between the women, hand loosely on Kate's back. He gave his brother a questioning look, but Dean simply stared in return and gave him a negative shake of his head.

"Susie, you okay to stay here and call it in?" Sam asked. They'd decided that, since Susie had a reason to drop by the house, even had a key because she used to watch the kids and house sit, that she'd been the logical person to call the police. Despite her frightened eyes, Susie nodded with resolve, squaring her shoulders. "We'll wait until after you call to leave if you want."

"No," she said, "I can do this. I've got wards on my car, so I'll stay in it until they come." She hopped off and left through the front door, Clint escorting her and watching until she was safely locked in her small Toyota. Kate, aware of the tension in the room, stood and moved to the back door.

"You okay?" Sam looked at Dean, standing with shoulders drawn together and hands shoved into his pockets. Silence was Dean's answer; he walked past his brother, heading to the driver's side of the car, brushing past Kate on the porch. She followed and took the front passenger side seat, offering a sympathetic look to Dean, leaving Sam and Clint in the back. The move pricked Dean's conscious; he knew he was making things worse with his attitude, but, damn it all to hell, he'd started to trust the guy, had done things with him … He shut down that line of thought quickly, starting the motor and backing out with only the streetlights to guide him. Kate's whispered directions to her friend's house were the only sounds as he drove.

Clint replayed the scene over in his head, analyzing every move, every word. He'd done something to seriously piss Dean off that was clear from temperature drop every time Clint opened his mouth to contribute to the discussion. Compared to the alternating frosty and fiery looks Dean gave him, Dean's treatment of Kate was downright congenial, almost playful, as if he had decided to make up for the doubts he'd had about her all in one conversation. Clint certainly had experience dealing with anger directed at him; Dean's ill temper had nothing on Tasha's glacial silence, a weapon she wielded very effectively. But it bothered him all the same, interfering with his concentration. The case was just about to break, he could tell, and there was no time for tempers to simmer. And, if he was honest, the dangerous glint in Dean's eye was a little more than appealing, stirring a rougher kind of heat in him, distracting him in a different way.

"It will take time to get through the journal," Kate was saying, carefully handling the small book they'd found wrapped in oilskin inside the metal box. "The ink is pretty faded and Madeline's handwriting is cramped and tiny."

"Good thing we have a librarian then," Dean said, smiling at her with his considerable charm, enough so that Sam looked up from trying to figure out Emily's password and glowered his way; Dean dimmed the charm in deference to his brother. Also in the box had been the map currently spread on the table between the two brothers. An overview of the city in the early 1900s, the map showed a number of marked locations; most were those already identified and searched by the vamps. But there were two more notes, in areas that used to be rural but were now part of the urban sprawl of the city of Pittsburgh.

"Look," Clint said, comparing the current map of the city with the older one. He pointed to a building. "The crematory was located here, down the street from the LeMoyne house, what would have been further out of town." He stepped closer to peer at the notebook screen of the updated map, sliding fingers on the glass to enlarge it. "There's a historical marker in front of the carpet store that's in the old building." Pushing it, he moved into Dean's space, forcing him to step away. Petty, Clint thought, but the Dean's razor sharp displeasure was wearing on his nerves. A variant of their earlier game at the diner, this one was going to end with bloody knuckles, Clint was sure. And he was increasingly sure he wanted it to.

"That's just asking for trouble," Kate shuddered. "An old crematorium. Where they burned bodies."

"Got it!" Sam flipped his book around to show the others; the symbol from the page was a more elaborate version of the one on Emily's floor. "The symbol belongs to Baron Samedi, hoodoo loa of the dead; he guards the crossroads between life and death and can cure any illness, even bring people back from the dead as long as the body hasn't been buried. A reaper and a cross roads demon rolled into one."

"Wait. Sam, Samedi's dead. Elysian Fields Hotel, remember? Lucifer sliced and diced him." Dean shifted further away from Clint as Kate's eyes widened at the statement. Determined, Clint leaned a hip on the edge of the table and looked Dean square in the face, seeing the fury directed at him in Dean's eyes. "No matter how much they sacrifice, Samedi's not coming back."

"Lucifer? As in Satan? Fallen Angel? Are you sure?" Kate's voice waivered, and she sank down into a dining room chair.

"Pretty damn sure," Dean replied. This time he focused on Clint, watching for a reaction, as if he thought Clint already knew about the apocalypse and their past with Lucifer. With a shrug, Clint dismissed Dean's unspoken question, somehow knowing how to infuriate Dean even more. The distrust level pegged in Dean's face; that was the key, Clint thought.

"All right, someone killed Emily and tried to summon a dead hoodoo god of the dead." Sam started.

"They might not have known Samedi was dead," Clint interjected.

"True. But the coincidences are too many here. Raising dead, making cross roads deals, bringing souls back … whether it's Hecate or Samedi, same idea. Dead is not dead, to someone." Sam turned a chair around and straddled it, forearms along the top of the ladder back.

"All we're left with now are Brenda, Susie, and Kate," Dean said. "No offense Kate, but you're mixed up in this too." The look he turned on her was a far cry from the charm earlier, but she met his gaze rather than shy away.

"Actually, I'd be offended if you didn't suspect me," she said with a weak laugh. "Susie and I haven't really been forthcoming. Hunters aren't known to be forgiving of witches or healers, or even to take the time to know the difference. For the record, hoodoo is not our cup of tea. Susie's family has worshipped Hecate for generations; she's from a long line of priestesses. And me? I'm a knowledge junkie. I love this." She waved her hand over the books, the journal, the computers, the map. "I love people, helping them, sharing knowledge. That's what I'm doing." With a sigh, she dropped her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands.

"So you're after the cauldron because it's Hecate's?" Sam asked softly. Kate looked at him before she answered.

"To return it, to keep it away from Emily, Hera, anyone else after it. That's where it belongs."

"That's fine and dandy, but we still have a hoodoo murderer, fighters trying to kill us, and riled up vampires. Brenda French is a scary freak, probably into hoodoo, and we don't know where the talisman is any more than we did this morning." Dean's frustration was evident as he bit out the facts.

"Dean," Sam warned, looking at Kate. Dean ignored him.

"We're distracted, Sammy. Time to get back on track here and figure this damn thing out." He stormed out of the room into the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator.

"What the hell did you say to him?" Sam hissed at Clint, sliding out of his chair, dropping the tablet on the table.

"I have no idea. Honestly."

Clint watched as Sam followed Dean into the kitchen, the two brother's heads coming together; a whispered conversation followed, low, but he'd long ago taught himself to hear what others couldn't .

"What is your problem?" Sam asked.

"Nothing. Just leave it alone, okay. I'll deal with it."

"If you and Clint want to get in a pissing match, take it out of here, okay? We've got work to do and your temper is getting in the way."

"You're right. We'll take this outside." Dean pushed away from Sam and raised his voice. "Alright, Legolas and I will head out to check these new sites. We'll take the maps with us. You guys crack that computer and go through the journal to see if Moaning Maddie left us anything to work with." He headed for the door, grabbing up the maps and Clint's notebook before anyone moved. Sam arched his eyebrows and Clint gave him a nod, knowing what Sam was asking. Yeah, he could handle whatever mood Dean was in. Hell, he'd even go easy on him, if it came to violence. And if it came to something else, well, he'd be glad to deal with that as well.

They didn't utter a word until the houses gave way to countryside. Dean drove far too fast for the two lane road until he came to a dirt road turn off; he rolled the car out of sight behind a corpse of trees then cut the engine. Slamming the door open, he got out. Rolling his shoulders, he waited on Clint to emerge.

"All right," Clint said as he stepped out. "What's your fucking problem? You've been jonesing for a fight since the Clutter house." Clint wondered just how far he was willing to push Dean.

Dean tilted his head down, steely gaze locking on. Clint waited for Dean to make the first move, blanking his face of any emotion. The air grew tense as they stared at each other, angry green eyes to patient blue-green ones.

"So what's the plan? Get us to take care of your little problem before you haul us off to jail? Maybe get as close as you can, lull us into trusting you?" Dean closed what little distance there was between them, bumping Clint back a step. "You did check us out before you showed up here, right?"

It clicked in Clint; the comment about fingerprints. Dean was angry that he knew about his past. Holding his ground, he leaned into Dean, eyes on the tight lips and determined jaw, letting some of the rising emotion he felt show in his eyes. "What? You think we don't have files on you? That I wouldn't check them after I ran into you? Like you didn't check up on me? Seriously, Dean, we both did our homework. Why does that piss you off?"

"Because," Dean spat out, "fucking cops. Take the easiest answer and blame the closest person. We save people, damn it. And end up chased by feds like you." With each word, Dean pushed on Clint's chest, forcing him backwards until his legs hit the side of the Impala. "And stop looking at me like that. It's not going to work."

Clint laughed, glad to be getting under Dean's skin. Dropping his hands on the hood of the car, he leaned back casually, one leg easing between Dean's, thigh bumping thigh. "Mundane police files? Nah, we don't walk around with our eyes closed, Dean. Turns out, you and Sam are on our watch list. We tend to keep an eye on people who are fighting the same things we are. In case we might need them, in a pinch."

Dean moved closer, and Clint's leg rubbed against the denim seam of Dean's crotch. "Is this fun for you?" Dean growled. "Whoever you are, whoever you work for, you're saying you've been watching us the whole time? The fucking apocalypse. Leviathans. All those demons and monsters and dead innocents." Hands planted besides Clint's, Dean spoke quietly. "We could have used the help. Saved more people. But you just fucking watched."

The implication pissed Clint off, that he didn't, and wouldn't have, done everything he could. It certainly didn't help that Dean's closeness was stirring more than anger, as he hardened until his zipper dug into him, Dean's hard set mouth tantalizingly close. Eyes changing to stone, he shot back. "First, we _were_ there. Cleaning up after disasters, tracking monsters … we did a damn lot to help. But there's just not that many of us to go around. Most of the damn government types shove cotton in their ears and their heads up their asses, bent on ignoring anything they can't tax or screw over."

He grabbed the collar of Dean's shirt, voice rising as he warmed to his subject. "Secondly, you think the apocalypse was the only game in town? Frickin' portals for alien armies, cyborgs, Hellfire club, time travelers, androids … you don't hear me bitching about hunters missing out on those." With a tug, he brought their mouths together, a rough kiss tinged with rage that only fueled the fire.

"Besides, that's not really why you're so heated," he said, lips still against Dean's. "You're afraid that I've been screwing you over while I was fucking you."

"Son of a bitch." Dean lurched back and swung his fist, connecting solidly with Clint's jaw. Head snapping up and then back, Clint raised his hand to the trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. Launching up, he tackled Dean, head buried in his chest, arms tight around; they stumbled back together before Clint let him go and smashed a blow into Dean's midsection, doubling him over.

"That all you got?" Clint taunted. Dean came up swinging, one to the stomach, followed by another to the head, but Clint deflected both, landing a punch on Dean's jaw, drawing blood. They circled each other, looking for an opening; Dean feinted to the left, came up under Clint's arm, grabbed and twisted the arm behind, shoving Clint flat on the hood of the car. Resting his arm on Clint's back, Dean held the agent down; Clint could feel Dean, clearly aroused, grinding into him as Dean bent down to cover his body, whispering in his ear.

"You really want to do this?" he asked, and a spike of pure lust skittered down Clint's spine as Dean's lips brushed his ear.

"Hell, yes." He moved his hips under Dean's, easing his own straining erection pressed on the metal of the car. "Fast." Dean sucked in breath. "Hard." Clint's breathing grew ragged. "Rough."

"Fuck," Dean moaned the word into Clint's ear. Anger was quickly changing into passion, Clint's impulse to beat the shit out of Dean becoming a need to feel Dean drive into him, to have him sink so deep that Clint was ripped apart. There was nothing soft about Dean's movements as he pressed himself against Clint's ass until Clint moaned for more. Digging a hand into his jean's pocket, Dean tossed the tube on the hood, rattling as it rolled to stop near Clint's elbow.

"Damn, were you a boy scout? If I'd known earlier you had that …" Clint began, but Dean grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, lips to Clint's neck, sucking in the skin before leaving teeth marks. Any thought fled as his blood carried the electric pleasure of Dean's mouth straight to his groin.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean ordered, letting Clint's head drop back on the hood. He shed his button-up, yanked his t-shirt over his head, tossing it away before bunching Clint's t-shirt under his arms. "Off. Now." Clint was already pulling, lifting his chest up and sinking his hips further back into Dean. He tried to turn over, to bring them face-to-face, but Dean would have none of it, throwing his arm onto Clint's back and driving his chest back down. The engine was still warm, and Clint could feel the ticking of it as it cooled off beneath his bare skin. When Dean's weight shifted, Clint lifted his hips, Dean's hand following the belt around to unbuckle, then jerk the pants out of the way, closing his hand around Clint, a rough caress that left Clint twitching, leaking onto the shiny finish of the car. He said Dean's name then, a primal kind of begging that was followed by a series of little more than moans as he finally felt Dean's hands on him, pulling him apart, the smooth press of Dean's erection on his thigh even though the denim of Dean's jeans.

He jerked when Dean squeezed the cold gel out onto the small hollow of his back. Twirling his fingers in the gooey mess, Dean traced Clint's spine, leaving a trail of warmth as he pushed one finger inside, hard, without any warning. Arching his back, Clint moved with Dean, the feeling somehow both invasion and invitation at the same time. Dean stopped the delicious torment only long enough to drag another finger into the warming gel before starting again with two, then three, slowly splitting Clint apart, stretching him with the rough rotations.

"God, Dean, Dean, yes, harder … "Clint couldn't keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth, body in charge now, demanding and needy. "Let me . . . I need …" He pressed his hands down and pushed up, arms straight, changing the angle of their bodies so he could thread his fingers around his aching erection.

"No," Dean snarled, pushing Clint's hand back onto the hood. "Not yet." His fingers disappeared, leaving Clint feeling empty and aching, unfulfilled. Turning his head, he could see Dean unzip his jeans, freeing himself, thick and red; hands caressed Clint's back again, spreading the now hot patch of gel, sending Clint to the very edge.

"Damn it, Dean. I can't hold out much longer." Dean's only response to Clint's plea was a smoldering look; he put his hands on his hard length, unrolling a condom slowly then covering it with lubricant. Clint watched as Dean's eyes drifted closed, his hand quickened, a moan escaping as he pleasured himself. Hanging his head, Clint tried to draw in enough air to grab some control back, but then Dean's hands moved back to him, bending him, opening him, until he could feel Dean's head posed and ready.

"Still want it hard and fast?" He whispered into Clint's ear as his chest pressed against Clint's back.

"Fuck, Dean. Yes … yes." At the words, Dean surged into him, in and up. He followed the first thrust with another, and another, giving Clint no time to do more than pant, wringing erotic sounds from Clint's throat as each plunge went further. Holding on to Clint's hip with his right hand, Dean's left grabbed Clint's hadn, wrapping both of their fingers around Clint's shaft, slipping up and down together. With a grimace, Clint dropped his head backward onto Dean's shoulder; the torture was exquisite and went on until he came with a cry, spilling over their hands and onto the hood. Wrapping his slick hand around Clint's chest, Dean bent him forward, thrusting a few more times before he came; Clint could feel the warmth inside him, the rise and fall of Dean's breath against his back, and the tremble in Dean's hands as his grip loosened, turning to gentle strokes.

"Clint?" The question was quiet, unsure as Dean's forehead came to rest on Clint's shoulder. If he could have moved, he would have kissed Dean, but he was shattered from his own climax, thrown apart, Dean still deep within.

"It doesn't matter." His own voice was unsteady. "I'm no saint. I've done things, Dean, terrible things. But, honest to God, I knew nothing about you until after we met and even then the file is severely lacking information. And then, well, can I say that only made you more, um, enticing? I could have wished for some more detail about a few of the cases … that demon summoning with those sorority girls?" He chuckled as he felt Dean jump slightly. "You can fill me in on the details later." He moved slightly with the words, as much as he could managed, rewarded when Dean called him a bastard in that breathy tone he was beginning to know well.

Dean pulled back, and Clint turned, caught his mouth in a tender kiss. Sighing, Dean gave up and let himself lean against Clint's strong chest, let Clint's arm wrap around him and hold him tight.

"If we messed up baby, you have to fix it," he grumbled. "This was all your idea. You pushed."

"Well, I'd intended to try the back seat, but the hood wasn't all that bad an idea."

Dean touched his fingers to the bruised and bloody edge of Clint's lip. "You better put some ice on that."

"You too, buddy. In fact, I think yours is worse than mine." Clint had the laugh as that competitive gleam settled in Dean's eye. "But first, we have to check out those sites, remember? Sam will think we've killed each other."

"Crematorium first? Kate was right, it was the creepiest of the three; in my world that means it's a prime candidate for weirdness."

As they put themselves back together, at least clothes wise if not mentally, Clint ran the conversation over again in his head. "I'm serious, Dean. I know you are not the payroll, uniform wearing type like me, but we use freelancers all the time. Pay's not bad. And there's some perks. I've got a lovely clean police file now. It's amazing what high level access can do. And with freelancers, there's no strings. We call, ask, you say no, we go away. Until the next time we call."

Dean stopped, obviously thinking about Clint's words. "I don't know. I have to talk to Sam." He turned and got into the car.

"Man, I understand. Really." And he did.


	9. Chapter 9

Brenda French leaned against her shovel, surveying the circle of holes around the hawthorne bush behind the old crematorium. The waning moon gave enough light to see she'd ditched her matching outfit for a pair of skinny jeans and a dark tank, looking years younger and pounds lighter. And shorter. Dean caught Clint's eye as the vamp behind him pressed a gun into the small of his back, pushing him forward. They stumbled to a halt before one of the small pits and Dean peered to the bottom; beans, cigars and cornmeal were spread in a familiar pattern.

"Well, boys, you could have shown up early, and I'd have made you dig these figgin' holes. Manual-effin-labor is not my cup of tea." She stretched her back, giving them a good look at her breasts straining against the thin fabric. "Goddamn, but it feels good to not be carrying all that weight around. Hot ass and tits when she was younger, don't you think?" Taking a small silver flask from her back pocket, she drank a long swig then offered it to them. "Just rum. Damn fine rum, but just rum."

"Sorry, rule number 27. Never take food or drink from strangers. Old rule, but good one." Dean shook his head. "So, big mojo hoodoo summoning circle for Samedhi? I hate to break the news to you, but he can't answer the phone right now. The cell service in purgatory is shit."

She laughed at Dean's comeback, blue eyes sparkling in merriment, taking another shot of rum. "I know that, asshole. Honestly, I heard that you were hot shit, best hunter around, but you are so far behind the frickin' curve." She tossed the shovel aside and tipped the flask over the last hole, pouring a stream of liquid into the pit. "Of course, you were there when he bit the big one, when that bastard Lucifer killed him. I told him not to go to that damn meeting with those cocksuckers. Baldur? What a pansy. But he didn't listen to me, no, thought we could fight."

"Okay, I'll bite," Clint said. "I don't know a summoning from any other spell, so what is this?"

"I think I you're my favorite," she said, moving counterclockwise around the circle, spilling rum into each hole. "Sam's all puppy dog smitten and Dean here is just plain no fun. But you I like. You get to call me Bridgette. They have to call me Mama." She laughed again, then drank some more. "What we have here is a power transference circle; take what's in the talisman and send it to someone else, like merging two files together on those infernal computers. I send him the power, and he can move in and out of purgatory just like he can with heaven and hell. No messy doors to open or monsters to escape." She shot Dean a look. "Much better, don't you think?"

Dean glowered back at her, brain turning over possibilities. The two vamps were just behind them, in his eye's blind spot, but if they were quick they could take them out, stop the spell. She was a loa, no doubt, but between them, they could do it.

"Look, he's a son-of-a-bitch, but he's my husband and I want him back. That's it. Then you can have the damn pin and do as you will with it." Dean stared at her. "What? You think I like killing people? Hell, my job is to keep them alive or help them cross over, jackass. Why would I want to kill them all?"

"That's what this is all about? Bringing your dead hubby back?" Clint kept his voice level and even. "Why kill Emily Clutter? Use the vamps?"

"Shit, boys, I'm not the only interested party, you know that right?" She stepped into the circle and knelt down by the bush, drawing a small gold pin from her pocket. Piling it carefully with more beans and a fat cigar, she moved away. "Fighting and blowing shit up just aren't my thing. I came in late to the show. The vamps were anxious to switch to my side once they realized I could make them human again. Brenda was easy; I popped her soul into a poor 24-year-old model in New York. Been hit by a taxi and was brain dead on life support. Now she has her chance to be the actress she always wanted. Can't help if she sucks at acting. And soon as you showed up on the scene, all I had to do was follow little Susie and horny Kate right to testosterone city; I so much more prefer to let handsome cocks like you do the work." She was close enough now to pat Dean on the shoulder, letting her fingers linger; he could smell something spicy on her breath, a whiff of the coffee and cigars. "And Emily? That fucker thought she'd sacrifice me to Queen Bitch Hera to get what she wanted. Damn, but she was one screwed up psycho. Those two deserved to fuck each other over. Blood magic couldn't bring Sami back, but it did let me punch a message through to him."

"But you found the talisman after all," Clint said.

"Only because men think with their dicks, leaving you a couple tacos short of a combination platter when you're getting screwed. Angry sex on the hood left me time to get here before you, dears. Not that I didn't enjoy eavesdropping." She wagged her finger at them both; Dean felt his face flush and he refused to look at Clint. "I could have sold tickets and made a fortune with porn that hot."

Before either of them could react, a rough-hewn cane appeared in her hand and she faced inward, beginning a chant in a language Dean couldn't identify. He could feel the stirring of the magic in his gut, a pull that grew into a stronger force, yanking at the ties around the talisman, unloosening and opening them. With a gesture, she raised the stick high and called out loudly, Samedhi's name mixed in with the unfamiliar words. The power hit him, like the breaking of an ocean wave, slapping him backwards. Clint staggered to stay upright and the vamps behind them shrieked as they dropped to the ground, writhing in pain, a tendril from the talisman catching them and dragging them forward.

A final shout and she fell forward onto her knees, panting with the effort of will, all of Brenda French draining away, leaving only a petite blonde sagging on the ground. The storm of magic stilled with a final burst, the vamps' moans the only sound left. Dean grabbed the gun that had fallen out of the nearest vamps' hands just as a man appeared in the middle of the circle. A trail of smoke curled up from the lit cigar in his hands, his expensive three piece suit tailored to fit his slim form. With a smile that showed white teeth in his rugged dark face, he walked towards the woman on the ground and, with a gentleness that surprised Dean, picked her up.

"Ah, 'Gette dear. I knew you couldn't live without me." Brushing back a tendril of hair and tucking it behind her ear, he leaned in and breathed smoke into her mouth; she straightened, gaining power, and a wide grin spread across her face.

"Damn good to see you, lazy ass. Where the hell have you been? Work's piled up higher than witch's tit and I need a fucking vacation … or a vacation of fucking." Her smile belied her harsh words. He caressed her face for a moment. "And I get to say told you so asshole."

With a contented sigh, she stepped to the bush and picked up the pin, tossing it to Clint.

"Don't say I never gave you anything," she said with a laugh. "You might want to get those two to a hospital. It will take a while to remember how to be human again. Now, I intend to spend a long weekend getting laid. I'd suggest the same for you, but you're now ground zero with that pin, so I think you're already screwed enough."

And then they were gone.

"Okay, just got to say it. What the hell was that?" Clint shook his head and turned the pin over in his hand; it looked just like the one in the picture, a patina of green covering the surface. He tucked it into his pocket. "Quite a mouth on that one, that's for sure."

"Considering we just let a powerful hoodoo spirit loose on the world, the fact that she was watching us should be least of my worries … but it's not." The moan of one of the vamps sounded behind them. "Curing vamps? That's something I never thought I'd see."

"So she was Maman Bridgette?" Sam said as he folded his jeans and put them in his duffle. Dean tossed his clothes in haphazardly. "Too many unanswered questions, if you ask me. We still don't know who hired those men. Or who blew up the building. Too many cooks in the kitchen."

"We could line up the usual suspects," Dean said in his best film noir detective voice; Sam ignored him. "Hera, Artemis, Hecate, the Fates … any of them could have been after the talisman. Now that it's useless, they'll focus on the others. D. C. is only about 4 hours from here." He picked up the last of their stuff and headed to the car.

"I thought we could leave in the morning," Sam suggested. "I could use some real sleep. And D.C. is quiet now, so it's already cold. Besides, been a long time since I've been on a real date, dinner and movie the whole nine yards. Might be nice."

Dean stopped, a knowing look on his face. "Sleep? Dude, you're going to have to tell me everything. Kate must really be something. Penthouse forum readers want to know." He started back to the room then stopped. "Damn. We just checked out. I'll have to get the room for another night."

"Actually, Clint said he's staying to finish up his report. You could crash with him." Sam tried to keep a straight face, but he didn't make it; Dean could read his brother well and, damn it, Sam knew. "Dean, are you blushing? Seriously? Wait, let me get a picture." Dean shoved away and slammed his bag into the trunk.

"Shut up and get in the car," Dean grumbled, sliding into the driver's seat.

"What? Dean Winchester embarrassed? Really? Dude, it's not like it's the first time you've …."

"Shut up, Sam."

"Oh come on. Like I don't know your I've-just-had-really-good-sex mood. Besides, Penthouse Forum readers want to know. This one ought to make the best-of-year-end review."

Maybe it was Sam's obvious ease with the situation, or the fact that Sam was only returning the grief Dean had been giving him, or maybe just because the thought of another night with Clint had already started the heat pooling inside him – for whatever reason, Dean saw the humor in the moment and let the grin building inside show on his face.

"You tell Bobby and I'll kill you myself," Dean said, starting the car and backing it out of the parking spot.

"What? That you had sex with a guy? Or with a government agent? Or just someone who could kick your ass?" Sam looked very pleased with himself.

"First, he can't kick my ass. Second, don't tell any of it, bitch."

"Okay, jerk."

"How did you hear about this place?" Dean asked as he carried his takeout bag into the room. "That was a real hole-in-wall. What, six tables?" He dumped his duffle on the floor, kicking it out of the way before carefully sitting the bag down on the table. Clint's stomach rumbled loudly as the smell of barbeque mixed with garlic.

"Got a friend who works the presidential detail. The Vice-President made a campaign pit stop in town and ate here. Dude wouldn't shut up about how good the damn brisket was." Clint shoved the ice bucket at Dean, who raised an eyebrow in question. "Picked up a new bottle of Jim Beam Reserve earlier. I prefer mine with ice."

He watched Dean go out the door; since the man had shown up at his door forty-minutes earlier, he'd steadfastly ignored the sexual tension, joking and pushing for food, checking the movies on demand on the hotel television, and complaining about the lack of magic fingers for the bed. Twice Clint had almost come back with a very graphic suggestion about where those magic fingers could be, but he'd sensed the underlying awkwardness Dean had with the situation. Dean seemed sadly out of practice with real dates, the kind where you got food, watched a movie, spent time just kissing before moving on to more serious lovemaking. And Clint made no bones about the fact that this evening was a date, even if it was in his hotel room. He was looking forward to spending the whole evening and night with Dean, not worrying about other people or the case itself. Not that the case was solved, hardly. No there was a lot left to do and travel to Rome loomed in his future. But for now, here in Pennsylvania, this part seemed to be coming to an end. A clean-up crew would be landing in the morning to deal with the local police, winding up all the loose ends. Clint would be headed back into the thick of the fighting, trying to locate the other parties involved.

He shook off thoughts of tomorrow and unloaded food onto the small table. As usual, they'd ordered far too much food, but if things worked out the way he hoped, they'd probably need the rest later. After Dean had called, he'd made a few pit stops: pulling a cold microbrew from the mini-fridge, he opened one for each of them and set them out just as Dean came back in with the ice.

"God, that smells good. I'm hungry." Dean eyes flashed at his choice of words before he shut the door behind him and sat down. His burger was piled high, sauce running down the sides. He picked it up and examined it. "Coleslaw on the burger? That's different." Condiments and the juice of the burger ran onto the aluminum wrapping as he took a bite.

"There's a place up in Pittsburgh that puts coleslaw AND fries on their sandwiches. I hear they're pretty good." Clint had opted for the brisket sandwich, sweet potato fries, and they'd shared a tub of mac & cheese. It was as good as advertised, and for a few minutes they busied themselves with the food.

"Any thoughts? Your files tell you anything?" Dean asked, and Clint sensed that he was still not completely done with the earlier argument. He'd learned that Dean made light of things that bothered him, brushing off questions of demon deals, the alpha vamp, and the apocalypse.

"Nothing more than we had earlier. Some of our best analysts are compiling lists of known entities with similar powers. The prevailing theory says they're the most likely suspects since Bridgette's another facet of the same triune female deities. But that's all we have right now." Taking a scoop of mac 'n chees, he offered it to Dean. "Cheesy goodness?" Clint finished his sandwich, rolled up the wrapper, tossing it in the trash can, and changed the subject. "Did you find anything worth watching?"

"Well there's the four couples get stuck in compromising situations and fall in love movie, a craptastic remake of an equally terrible old TV show, or a bunch of aging action heroes from the 80's pretending they're not in their 60s. You have a preference?" He finished off the burger and sat back with the garlicky goodness that was his fries. Clint reached across the table to take one.

"Oh, aging action heroes it is. I've seen enough chick flicks to last a while." Gathering up his garbage, he finished off the beer and grabbed two more from the fridge. "Tony enjoys forcing us to watch the worst of those romantic comedies. Nobody likes them, so he picks them on his nights to piss everyone off, although secretly I think he likes them. Why any woman would want those assholes, I've never figured out." He stopped in front of Dean's chair and handed him the beer.

"Tony?" Dean asked.

"Part of the team. Motley bunch, really, but family in their own way." He sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes with his feet and plumped up two pillows as a back rest, swinging his legs out straight.

"So, you have a band of merry men?"

That drew a bark of laughter from Clint. "Well, none of them _technically_ wear tights, but that's pretty damn good. I'll have to use that one next time someone trots out _Robin Hood_. Nah, we're more like the fellowship in _Lord of the Rings_."

"Never seen those movies," Dean countered.

"Hey, they're good. The books too. Elven archers, man. And Liv Tyler. How can you not have seen them?"

"Because I'm not a nerd, plus I was too busy kicking ass and getting laid." He was clearly enjoying himself. "But, maybe for Liv, I might be persuaded."

"Get my notebook from the dresser. I've got all three extended editions. I'll even let you be Aragorn." He moved pillows to the headboard and patted the bed beside him. "I can't let you go through life without seeing the Battle of Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields."

Clint had seen the movies so many times that he could quote all his favorite lines split seconds before the characters said them. He kept up a running patter of information during the first 20 minutes of Shire scenes; Dean kept rolling his eyes at the hobbits, making dirty jokes about midgets and dwarf sex. The tiny screen gave them an excuse to sit close together, hip and leg touching, and the nearness was driving Clint crazy. Dean was half-reclined, but fidgeted every so often, redistributing his weight, causing all sorts of brushes of bodies. Not wanting to rush things, Clint gritted his teeth and put his arousal on lock down. Dinner and movie was the plan, and he was damn well capable of waiting, even when his cock was demanding that he take matters faster. Of course, he had to pick a movie that ran over three hours.

"Okay, so the guys in black, they're what? Demons?" Dean's elbow grazed Clint's chest as Dean pushed himself up onto the pillows, his knee falling over onto Clint's leg. "And hooded man in the bar? Good guy, right?" He turned his face towards Clint's and grinned. "Any chance of seeing any action soon?"

"You have no patience, you know that?" Clint muttered as Dean moved again, bringing hip fully in contact with hip.

"None at all," he replied, taking the notebook and putting it on the bedside table. "Liv can wait." Taking a handful of soft cotton tee, Dean tugged Clint to him, kissing him lightly. Dean tasted of beer and spices, a trace of garlic; Clint didn't give a damn what else because Dean tasted like Dean, and he wanted this kiss.

"Thank God," Clint murmured against Dean's soft lips. The gentle kisses continued, a slow exploration of skin and mingling breaths. Time passed as they kissed, again, breaking, then coming back together, no hurry, no rush, just taking pleasure in the sensation. Clint ran his hand until his palm was flat on Dean's chest, resting lightly. He could feel Dean's steady heartbeat; relaxing his hold on the shirt, Dean curled his hand around Clint's neck with just a light pressure, urging him forward, deepening the caress of lips, parting his own slightly to suck in Clint's bottom lip, tease it with his tongue before letting go.

A slow burn began as they stayed like that – lips in teasing contact, one hand touching the other – a swell of music from the movie still playing on the table. As if they had all the time in the world to do nothing but this. Nothing mattered but the growing heat, a gradual climb rather than a headlong rush. Even tongues were tentative, licking lazy lines of the lips, tasting bit by bit, occasionally grazing then retreating. Clint heard someone moaning, soft and low in the throat, and realized it was him.

"You're missing Liv," Clint said. Dean chuckled, twisting around to hit pause.

"If you can think about Liv, I'm not doing it right," he said as his mouth came back to claim Clint's, his hands on Clint's shoulders, drawing them face to face. "Let's try this again."

This kiss was less languid, more like staking a claim, broadcasting Dean's intentions through warm strokes of tongue in Clint's mouth and fingers along his jaw. This time, Clint moaned out loud as Dean's lips followed the fingers, caressing each bite of skin with his tongue as he went, turning Clint's chin to suck a line of tiny kisses down his neck to the vee of his shirt. Dean's strong hands came up to cradle Clint's head, thumbs parting his lips, fingers buried into his hair at the temples and teasing his neck. Tilting upward and holding him still, Dean hovered just short of another kiss, warm breath washing over Clint, their eyes meeting.

"What the hell color are your eyes?" Dean asked, voice husky, little more than a growl. Then he closed the distance, tongue slipping inside to do more than tease this time; like a shot of whiskey, he drank in the taste of Clint, deliberately savoring each sip. Clint's body responded, heart speeding up, and he rose up to his knees, taking Dean with him, melding body to body, hands finding the warm skin on Dean's back under his t-shirt, digging his fingers into the muscles. Even through their clothes, the touch felt good, hips snug together, aroused states evident through the denim. Clint moved, rubbing his pelvis into Dean's, a gentle seduction as his fingers circled on skin and slipped inside the waistband of Dean's jeans.

"I made a pit stop after you called," Clint said. Reaching over table, he pulled a plastic bag up off the floor, pushing Dean down. Upending the bag, he dumped the contents out on the bedspread.

"What is all that?" Dean chuckled, turning over the boxes. "Tingling, warming … what the heck? Cherry or Pina colada flavor?"

"Surprisingly, the little drugstore down the street has quite a unique selection. Lovely sample packs, too." He tossed Dean another box. "I'm thinking twisted or pleasure." His grinned, playful, as he pushed Dean back on the bed and rolled up his shirt, baring abs. "But the others we'll have to try. See which one works the best."

Dean looked amused as Clint opened the first tube, smearing a line on his skin. He jerked as the cold gel touched him, and then again when Clint bent his head and ran his tongue over the skin.

"Cherry or Pina Colada?" Dean asked, watching Clint intently.

"You decide." Clint kissed him, lips slippery with an artificial cherry tang. The guttural sound Dean made in his throat vibrated in Clint's mouth, and his cock throbbed in response, wanting to make Dean curse and moan for him.

"I'll have to say no to the flavors," Clint said as he wiped the sticky mess off his lips. "Reminds me of chapstick." Dragging his shirt over his head, Clint used the material to wipe off the rest of the gel, smiling as his fingers grazed Dean's skin, eliciting a groan. He did it again, just to watch Dean squirm, before he tried the second one, taking his time to paint with his fingers, drawing a circle around the belly button and teasing Dean's nipples until they were hard. The lotion began to warm gently on his hands, so he twirled his fingers back through it before he popped the button on Dean's jeans, unzipping and parting them to reveal the swollen shaft. Dean wasn't wearing any boxers, and he grinned at Clint, a sexy smile that sent a wave of desire thrumming through Clint's chest, making his fingers tremble. This game, he thought, was a new experience for Clint. Wanting to arouse Dean more, make him lose control, not to win, but so both of them would come together, higher and faster than they had before. When Dean had started that damn hotdog eating seduction, when he'd pushed Dean's anger earlier - God, just the thought of Dean bending him over that damn car … a need drove him to take this, whatever it was between them, to a higher level.

"Well?" Clint asked.

"Not as hot as Susie's," Dean replied, wiggling for Clint's benefit, grinning smugly. Clint moved, putting one knee between Dean's legs and sitting up; with deliberation, he stroked his thumb up Dean's cock, from base to tip, gliding around the head and across the slit. Dean's head fell back with a muttered "shit" that wiped the cheeky look off of his face.

"Well, then, we'll just have to keep trying, eh?" Clint stroked again, watching with pleasure the other man's reaction to the touch. He began to clean again, wiping first and then kissing Dean's chest as he went, circling the belly button with his tongue, bringing his mouth close enough to exhale warm air against the engorged head, then withdrawing.

"You're going to kill me," Dean gasped. "Those damn fingers of yours. God, yes, do that again," his words dropped off in a groan when Clint's thumb circled again.

He took his time opening the last tube. "Okay, this one's called Intense. Oh, it has instructions! Let's see." He held the tube up to the light while his thumb continued its lazy path. "Interesting." He squeezed a line just above Dean's belly button, leaned over and blew lightly on it.

"Damn it." Dean jerked, his muscles contracting as he thrust his hips up. Clint breathed again, then licked the spot, getting a light sheen of lotion, but mostly a taste of sweaty Dean. "God damn it," Dean cursed as he ground his teeth together, arching up into Clint's hand.

"We have a winner." Clint tugged Dean's jeans, pushing them over his feet and off the edge of the bed. Dean helped with his shirt, flinging it somewhere in the room, sitting up and grabbing Clint's face, pulling him in for a heated kiss. This kiss was all passion and need, delving deep into Clint's mouth with tongue, each plunge jolting into Clint's groin, dragging out his own series of curses. He tried to slow things back down but Dean was insistent, attacking with his lips, roving hands on Clint's bare skin. "Dean." Clint tried to say more, but the minute Dean's hands tore at the button of his jeans, he lost his train of thought, unable to do more than lift his hips and help wiggle out of the confining pants, moving away to maneuver out of them.

It was Dean's turn to pull Clint up to his knees, mirroring their earlier position, only more desperate now as Dean's hands grabbed Clint's ass and hauled him into complete contact, skin pressed against skin, cocks rubbing together. Each touch was like an electric shock to Clint, leaving nothing but want. He dove back to Dean's mouth, hands roaming, tangling through Dean's hair, long strokes leaving tingling warmth down his back, cupping his butt. He ran a finger down and around the sensitive hole; Dean groaned and bit down on Clint's lip, drawing a bead of blood that he sucked off. Hand still greasy, Clint slid a finger inside, encouraged by Dean's growl of pleasure.

"Yes, god, yes." Dean's hand slipped between them to caress Clint, stroking fingers along his length. As Dean relaxed, Clint added a second finger, twisting them as he glided in and out; Dean's hips mimicked the motion, and he matched pace with his hand, rubbing Clint's shaft against his belly. Breath hitched in Dean's throat with each push, and, when Clint added a third finger, Dean groaned, shallow gasps of air.

Clint kept up until Dean's head fell forward onto his shoulder, the rushes of air from Dean's lungs cooling his skin. Easing Dean down on the bed, Clint positioned himself, taking a moment to grab the box and rip open a packet, not even looking to see which one he picked. Nudging Dean's knees apart, he slathered gel then eased in, pushing past the tight muscle before he sheathed himself, reveling in the tightness. Hooking Dean's knee up and over his shoulder, Clint sank even deeper, changing the angle, shifting as he moved until he heard Dean's muttered yes and felt muscles constrict around him.

"Fuck." Clint laughed at Dean's breathy word, both a curse and a request. Tilting Dean's hips up slightly, Clint began a steady rhythm of thrusts, easy at first, holding Dean's thigh against his chest, balancing on his knees. As he felt his own climax coming, Clint let a hand, slick with gel, circle Dean's straining erection, spreading heat through the friction of his sliding hand and circling fingers. Dean called out his name just as Dean exploded with a long groan. Clint dropped down on his hands and let himself go, pounding into Dean as his own climax ripped through him, shattering him into tiny pieces. Boneless and quivering, his body went limp across Dean's, faces towards each other, as he heaved in air. For a time, neither spoke nor moved, just tried to pull themselves back together.

"God," Clint moaned as he worked up the strength to roll off of Dean and onto his back. "I am going to stay right here for a while."

"Well, I imagine it would be more effective if we turned off the lights," Dean said with a smile. He nodded downward as Clint gave him a perplexed look. Glancing at himself, Clint realized he'd picked a neon green glow-in-the-dark condom. "Hey, you've probably got arrows that do that, right?" Dean wiggled his eyebrows. The absurdity of it struck Clint and he began to laugh, a real belly laugh that went on for a few minutes as Dean joined him.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean felt the edge of the bed dip seconds before she spoke.

"Well, this is a lovely way to wake-up in the morning, I must say."

With a start, he sat up, reaching under the pillow, aware of Clint reacting beside him. In a split second, two guns trained on the woman who sat smiling at them.

"Men with guns," Hera said, tugging the sheet down. "Naked men with guns. Oh, my. This is a party just waiting to happen." The silky blue dress she wore draped across her breasts, slipping as she leaned forward to get a good look, falling far short of her crossed knees.

"You ever hear of knocking?" Dean grumpily demanded.

"Where's the fun in that? Then I couldn't catch you like this." She slid her hand up Dean's leg, scraping her manicured nails up Dean's chest. "Just say the word and we can be on the beach, with a cold bottle of cerveza, naked on the sand." She bent and brought her red lips to Dean's, tilting her head, licking along his lower lip with her tongue. Dean sat, unmoving as the feel of Clint's gun barrel on her temple made her stop; he pulled away as she sat back.

"Lady, you're not my type," Dean growled, putting the gun between them again. Hera's eyes flashed red for a moment then she smiled again.

"Or maybe I just don't the right equipment?" She boldly eyed both men's crotches, licking her lips. "No? Hmmmmm, maybe it would help if I looked like this." With a fluid movement, she changed. Her red hair fell in waves to her shoulders, body clad in tight black leather, zipper opened low to show the swells of her perfect breasts. Blue eyes regarded them both, hot and smoldering. "Is this better?" She asked with a purr. She ran her hand up Clint's leg, leaning across Dean, giving him an unobstructed view of cleavage as her fingers came to rest on Clint's inner thigh. Dean couldn't help but stare and even stir at the very hot body brushing against him.

"You had better hope she never finds out you did this. Goddess or not, she will kill you. Slowly. Painfully." Clint's voice was icy cold. Hera seemed taken aback by the response. Shifting onto her knees, she sat up and looked at them both.

"Come now, she's lovely. Dean certainly finds her attractive." With knees spread slightly apart, she ran her hands up her waist, cupping her breasts, teasing her own nipples through the leather, giving a little moan. "A threesome would be just the thing to wake you up, don't you think?"

"You are not her. Trust me on this one." Clint cocked his weapon and held it steady. "Now change back before I shoot you just for spite." With a huff, she shifted back to her original appearance, except for the fiery red color of her hair, now pulled up at the nape of her neck with a jeweled clip.

"You can't blame a girl for trying. If I'm going to be out of a job, I can at least get something out of the deal. Everyone else is having sex." She pouted, pursing her lips.

"Sorry, but you'll have to look elsewhere for your fix," Dean said. "And if you know something, you could just tell us rather than do the whole dog and pony show."

"You have very nice lips, dear. And a smart mouth. I like your mouth. I bet it looks lovely around your friend here," she said then sighed. "Oh, alright. Humans, no matter how noble their calling, make deals when push comes to shove. We're all pretty much in sales, after all. Some just want to be the king of everything while some of us are content with our own little share. It's all about power, pretty boy. Now are you sure you won't let me at least watch? I'm perfectly willing to take care of myself."

"No." They both spoke at exactly the same time.

'Your loss, boys." With a wave of dismissal, she was gone as silently as had appeared.

"Goddamn it," Dean grabbed his phone, dialing Sam's number. "I am an idiot." Clint rolled out of bed, dressing quickly and efficiently. He tossed Dean's clothes to him from where they'd landed around the room.

His brother's sleepy voice answered. "Dean? What's up?"

"We've got some new intel. How fast can you meet us?" Dean heard a muffled voice in the background.

"Tell us where and we can leave here in a few minutes." Sam answered.

"So, sexy leather lady?" Cutting the connection, Dean turned to Clint who was clearly uncomfortable with the question. Dean grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at the agent.

"I'd love to see what happened if you called her that to her face." Clint shook his head. "In the first place, she's seeing someone and secondly, I don't have a death wish."

"Dude, she's seriously hot!" Dean protested. Clint crossed the space between them, pushing Dean up against the wall, and kissed him soundly, tongues totally involved, lust slamming through both of their bodies. Dean's brain shut down at the erotic sensation, his body instantly responding again. Hands grabbed at Clint's shoulders, the kiss deepened and threatened to swamp both of them before Clint pulled back.

"You're hotter," Clint said with a smile as he walked away, leaving Dean both half-aroused and a little unsteady.

The steady beep of monitors was the only sound in the room as the four of them stood in the doorway, watching the father, head bent down in prayer, big hand holding the smaller one. The boy in the bed looked serene, still and unmoving, but any spark of life had fled, leaving only an empty shell.

"Deputy Cosgrow? Martin?" Sam asked quietly. The man's pain was evident as he turned towards them, eyes red, face streaked from tears. It had taken only a short amount of time to find out about the officer's son: the tackle that brought the boy down, the ensuing coma, the diagnosis that he was brain dead. The pain was enough to make even the most noble of men enter into a deal with the devil.

"I wondered when you'd show up," he said, not surprised at all. "You have to understand. It was just a damn pin. Make sure I found it first and then he'd bring Tony back to me. Sounded so easy. I even called you two in to help." He rubbed his sleep-deprived face. "Now people are dead. There's no pin. And my wife wants to turn off the machines. Says it's time to accept that he's gone." Head shaking, he covered his eyes with the palms of his hand.

"What was the deal?" Dean asked. Cosgrow sagged back down into the chair by the bed.

"I went to the crossroads, just like the story my grandmother told me about that blues man. I made a deal with a woman; my son and she'd come for me in 10 years. But then he showed up and made a better offer, said my case had been 'upgraded,' said I didn't have to go until it was my natural time. I should have known it was too good to be true. One stupid piece of jewelry."

"Let me guess. Dark hair, expensive suit, smart mouth, pain-in-the-ass? Called himself King of Hell?" Sam asked. Cosgrow nodded.

"Crowley," Dean said under his breath. "Son of a bitch. Consolidation my ass. He's still looking for more juice."

"And the bomb in the building?" Clint asked.

"The demon's order. You were getting too close. Ben was my friend; he tried to talk me out of the whole deal. He was supposed to get out before he set it off." He kept his eyes averted. "After …. after … we stop the machines, I'm going to turn myself in."

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the male model and his moose. And a new friend. You starting a boy band and didn't cut me in for a percentage? I'm hurt." Appearing suddenly in the room, Crowley tugged his suit jacket into place, smoothing out the cut of the expensive material. Cosgrow jumped up from his chair, knocking it over.

"Looking for goddesses, Crowley? I hear Victoria Secret's having a big sale." Dean aimed his comment at the King of Hell. "Thinking of expanding again?"

"Ah, Dean, what lovely witty repartee as usual," Crowley flicked dust off his sleeve. "The Deputy and I had a deal. This has nothing to do with you."

"And what do you want with Hecate's pin?" Sam asked. "Going to corner the market on deal making?"

"Sammy boy, I'm a business man, that's all there is to it."

"So Cosgrow made a deal with you: the pin for his son's life, right?" For the first time, Clint spoke, turning Crowley's attention to him.

"So the boy toy can speak," Crowley stopped in front of the agent, surveying him, understanding dawning on his face. "Well, what have we here? Oh, the deals I could make with you, Hawkeye. What would you want, I wonder? Your brother back? Maybe a certain god's head on a platter?" Dean cut a look at Clint, but the agent never flinched. Surprised, Sam's head swiveled towards them. "You'd be a real feather in my cap. I could be persuaded to offer you a special price."

Taking the pin from his pocket, Clint held it out to the demon. "Deal's a deal. Here's Hecate's pin. Now bring the man's son back."

Crowley eyed the pin suspiciously. "Sorry, mate. That's not it. Looks like you've been had. That's just a bit of metal." He looked at the deputy, then back to Clint. "If you find the real pin, call me. And if you want to make a deal, just ask your boyfriend. He knows my number." With that parting shot, he was gone.

Kate broke the silence in the room as she turned to Sam. "I want you to remember that you said you were an FBI agent. And technically, you never told me any differently. I handled it all pretty well, don't you think? Didn't get upset about being lied to." She walked over to the boy in the bed. "I'm so sorry, Martin. From what I've seen, you're a good man. If I knew, I never would have let it get this far." Taking the boy's hand, she bent down, breathing lightly on his eyes. "Tony? Time to wake up. Your dad's here now." The power was gentle, nothing like the whirlwind of the loa's ceremony, just a feeling of a cold breeze crossing the room. The monitors jumped, a change registered in the bips, and Tony's eyes fluttered, his chest rising.

Cosgrow reached for his son just as buzzers sounded, calling nurses and doctors. Kate stepped back. "Time to go." With a wave of her fingers, they were outside, standing in an open area of the hospital parking lot, the Impala within sight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xx

Clint's phone buzzed and he stepped away to answer it. Dean felt poleaxed that he hadn't figured it out. Kate … Hecate. How stupid could he be? And Sam had been having sex with her. Okay, that was strange. And maybe a little kinky. It did explain why Sam was so fascinated, maybe. Goddess sex … Dean might have been jealous of his brother if he hadn't been getting some damn fine sex of his own. And Sam seemed okay with it all because he was kissing Kate now, practically lifting her feet of the ground, or maybe she wasn't standing on the ground at all.

"So Sam's got a pretty powerful girlfriend, eh?" Clint asked as he put away his phone. He leaned against the Impala. "Could be handy, I guess."

"Fucking witches. And gods. And demons." Dean muttered. "I hate them. And we still don't have all the answers. I feel like we've been screwed with this entire time." Clint's mouth twitched up in a lopsided smile at Dean's choice of words, so Dean rolled his eyes at him.

"Look, Crowley's a dick, but he'd use demons to do his dirty work, not hired muscle." Dean felt like he should probably stop watching Sam and Kate, but they were too involved with each other to notice, so Dean figured, what the hell. "There's still an unknown player in this game."

"Well, Kate's pin is useless now that she let Bridgette drain it, but the other two are still out there. Whoever else is interested will have to show their hand soon." Clint shifted to face Dean at the sound of an approaching aircraft. "Look, I put my number in your phone last night. If you head to Washington, I'll get you connected with our people there. Werewolves are a little outside of their area of expertise. I'll be there as soon as I've taken care of this other little problem."

A heliocopter came into view over the trees, heading for the empty field; Sam and Kate stepped back as it came in for a landing.

"If I find out anything else, I'll let you know," Kate offered, unfazed by Dean's glower her direction. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered into Sam's ear before she disappeared. Sam gave Dean an unfazed shrug; Dean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the car.

The landing ramp extended and a man walked down wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. Dean pegged him for a fed or one of the Men in Black with his slim build, dark sunglasses and close shaven head. He exuded strength and calm. Grinning, Clint waved him over to where the Impala sat on the side of the road.

"Coulson," Clint began. "These are the Winchesters, Sam and Dean." As if he met hunters every day, Phil Coulson nodded to each, extending his hand and repeating their name as he shook theirs.

"Good to meet you, gentlemen," Coulson gave them each a nod. "May I have a word, agent?" He and Clint took a few steps away.

"We going to D.C.?" Sam asked, distracting Dean from watching the back view of Clint and Coulson.

"It's close, and we can kill some werewolves. That's our kind of job." Dean stared ahead, thinking. "He offered to pay us, you know. Like guns-for-hire."

Sam turned, startled. "What did you say?"

"I told him we'd talk about it. I don't like it. But he says he can wipe our records clean. No murder, robbery, desecrations. . ."

"Yeah, but we'd be working for the government, or whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. is. I have my doubts."

Clint turned back to them. "Let me know you if need any support if you head to D.C." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, before picking up his duffel.

They both stepped towards each other at the same time, almost bumping hands as they moved together, Clint's left and Dean's right, and Clint's smile spread across his face. With a chuckle, Clint tangled his hand behind Dean's neck and pulled him in for the kiss; Dean's hand circled Clint's waist and reeled him forward at the same time. Dean wanted to taste Clint one more time; odds were they would never cross paths again, and if Sam was cool with screwing a goddess then Dean could damn well say a proper goodbye. As they parted, Dean saw Coulson standing, stone-faced as if he was waiting for a train, unfazed and seemingly uninterested, tapping the screen of his phone. Sam, however, was slack-jawed, stunned; Dean raised his eyebrows and gave Sam his "what?" look.

"Sam," Clint said with a nod as he turned away and boarded the plane. The jet rose slowly into the air and Dean stood watching it for a few moments before he headed for the driver's side.

"Dude." Sam said, still standing in the same place. "You're not going to say anything?"

"Nope," Dean slid behind the wheel. "Get in the car." Sam folded his body into the passenger side. Dean's phone vibrated and played a tinny version of _Smoke on the Water_ while Sam's went off at the same time. A text message popped up. "Sam, do not open that."

Sam was already chuckling, enlarging the photo and waving it in Dean's direction. A still image of Dean and Clint kissing in living technicolor filled the small screen. "Proof! MIB Coulson must have a serious megapixel camera on that phone of his to get this good of a shot. Look, I can blow it up and it's still not grainy." He zoomed in on the lip lock and Dean tried to snatch the phone.

"I swear to God if you don't delete that …" Dean growled, but Sam just laughed.

"Oh, this is getting saved, and if I had a Facebook page, I'd post it."

Dean hit reply and sent off a terse message that was answered in seconds.

_He could take both of us at the same time without breaking a sweat, so no._

He started the car as Sam continued to manipulate the picture, turning it around and setting it as his background image.

"You sure you're going to D.C. because of werewolves? Or to see secret agent man again?" Sam said, opening his laptop and connecting his phone to download onto the hard drive.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean practically growled. "Or I'll have to mention the whole fucking goddess thing a few thousand times." Sam just chuckled, fingers clicking the keys.

Dean took a second to save the picture in his own phone before he pulled out, spinning gravel, not looking forward to the drive with a smug Sam.

Author's note: So, this is my first slash fiction. It's a learning process, as you can probably tell. There's more to the story and I plan to get around to writing it because I absolutely want Dean and Tony Stark to go drinking together while Sam fangirls over Captain America. And I can't wait to see Widow's reaction to Clint's new love interest … and a very handsome Sam Winchester. Right now, Dean is demanding that I work on my threesome AU for him, Sam and a lovely young woman named Rowan, and Clint is enamored with a certain Green-eyed doctor set of stories. So, soon, my lovelies, some fine sipping whiskey in a D.C. establishment and more grief from Natasha. I promise!


End file.
